"Think so?"
Byron winked. "I know so," he said, patting Peter on the leg. "Now come on," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's go get us a slice of that apple pie."
* * *
She set the dirty dishes in the sink, wrapped the leftovers in foil. On the counter, there sat a cranberry and apple crumble she had made for dessert. The bourbon sauce, which was to be warmed and drizzled over the piping dessert, sat in a saucepan on the stove, a gloppy mess. She dumped it down the drain and left the dishes in the sink for Marie to deal with in the morning.
Matthew was back in his office working, and Greta stood with the last of the wine in her glass gazing out the kitchen window at the valley beyond.
When was it going to end, she had asked him. But she knew the answer to that question. There were two answers, really. The first was that it was never going to end, and the second was that it already had. She had tried - for the last time? - to break through the wall he had over the years erected between them. But she knew now, after tonight's dinner, that the wall would only grow higher, thicker. After Matthew turned Wallaby into what he wanted, then sold it to ICP, it would be no different when he was promoted to a higher rank within ICP, perched atop his ever-growing blockade. Maybe they would stay in California, but probably they would have to go back to New York, to ICP's headquarters. Though she sometimes missed New York, the thought or returning held little appeal. There her friends were all wives of the other International Foods executives, and out here, regardless of all she had heard about the nice people in California, the women were still the same, robots who yessed their husbands at social occasions and dinner parties, while behind their backs they, and their husbands, engaged in extramarital affairs.
That wasn't how Greta wanted to end up living her life. But would she?
She finished her wine and set the glass on the counter - a little too firmly. The crystal base shattered into little bits with a high resonating tinkle, yet the bowl of the glass remained intact in her hand.
"Shit," she cried, the sound breaking a dam in her, releasing a flood of tears. She tossed the unbroken half into the sink, which echoed the same tinkling sounds, even louder this time. She held her breath, wondering if he had heard, wondering if would come to see if she had injured herself. She waited, holding on to this fragile hope with all of her breath.
If he had heard, he wasn't letting her know. She let out a great sigh. Jesus, was that her life with Matthew? Shattered, broken beyond repair? It was too much to consider at this moment. She needed to get out of the house for a little while, to go for a walk in the pretty night and clear her head.