he insult came before I’d even finished setting down the peach cobbler.
I’d baked it at five that morning in the kitchen of the lake cabin we’d rented, and it was still warm under the foil. The smell of cinnamon followed me across the grass toward the pavilion tables, where thirty-two members of the Cole family sat under strings of white lights, eating brisket I’d ordered, off plates I’d bought, at tables I’d rented.
My stepdaughter, Madison, was twenty-three years old. She was sitting at the end of the long table with her sunglasses pushed up in her blond hair. She looked up at me, picked up an empty paper plate, and held it out toward me like she was tipping a hotel maid for turning down her bed.
“The help eats in the kitchen,” she said.
She said it loud. Loud enough for every single person under that pavilion to hear.
