The turkey weighed twenty-two pounds. It was a heritage breed, free-range, organic bird that cost more than a week’s groceries for a normal family. I knew this because I had paid for it. Just like I had paid for the Viking dual-fuel range it was roasting in, the Le Creuset roasting pan holding it, and the sprawling, five-thousand-square-foot colonial mansion in Connecticut that smelled of sage, butter, and suppressed resentment.
“Elena!”
The voice screeched from the living room, sharp enough to cut glass. It was Beatrice Sterling, my mother-in-law. A woman who wore Chanel suits she couldn’t afford and judged people by shoes she didn’t buy.
“Coming, Beatrice,” I called out, wiping my hands on my apron. My hands were red and chapped from washing vegetables for four hours.
I walked into the formal living room. It was a showroom of beige luxury. Richard, my husband of five years, was standing by the fireplace, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch. He looked the part of the successful investment banker: tailored suit, Rolex Submariner on his wrist, a look of perpetual boredom on his face.
” The champagne is tepid,” Beatrice complained. She was holding a flute of Dom Perignon (vintage 2008, $280 a bottle, paid for by me). She gestured at the glass as if it contained sewage. “Richard works himself to the bone to provide this lifestyle, to buy this expensive refrigerator, and you can’t even manage the simple task of temperature control? Honestly, Elena. It’s embarrassing.”
I looked at Richard. He didn’t defend me. He never did. He just swirled his scotch—a Macallan 25 that I had bought for his birthday—and sighed.
“Fix it, Elena,” Richard said, not making eye contact. “My partners will be here in twenty minutes. I don’t want to look like I live in a fraternity house.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’ll get more ice.”
