Chapter 15

Before Richard and Ethan moved in, Vivienne's own meals had been easy. She ate out most nights, or threw together a charcuterie board or baked a piece of salmon.

Simple.

With the two Sterling men in the apartment, the equation changed.

I had spoiled them for forty years. They didn't eat takeout — or when they did, only occasionally, and only if Vivienne happened to be with them. They wanted what they were used to.

So they naturally turned to Vivienne.

Except Vivienne couldn't cook. She'd cooked maybe twenty times in her entire adult life. The kind of meals they wanted — heavy Sunday roasts, real pot roast, lasagna layered from scratch, braised short ribs, mashed potatoes with the right texture — she had no idea where to start.

To keep the peace, she made them a few half-decent Italian oven bakes. It was all she had.

They ate it the first week with forced enthusiasm. By the second week their stomachs were in open revolt.

Richard suggested hiring help.

Problem was, the apartment was tiny. A housekeeper couldn't move in. The best they could get was someone stopping by twice a day to cook and clean.

The housekeeper hated it. Richard had to pay well above market rate to keep her from quitting.

Even then, Richard and Ethan refused to do an ounce of housework themselves. Every mess stayed until Vivienne or the housekeeper dealt with it.

And Vivienne, who'd spent six decades of her life not touching a cleaning rag, was now quietly picking up after two grown men.

After a solid week of this she was ready to snap.

She also walked past Central Park one afternoon, on her way back from the market, and spotted Richard.

He'd told her for weeks he'd been out pulling strings for Ethan. A better job. A possible startup. Something.

He was sitting on a bench playing chess with a retiree.

Further down, when she circled back, she saw him at the edge of the Zumba class in the community square, watching the women dance.

She wondered if Richard's taste had always been that ordinary. That common.

She had nothing left.

Glamorous or not, she was sixty-something. The only reason she'd put up with it this long was that she didn't want to alienate Ethan.

That night she broached it, gently.

"Richard, Ethan. Listen."

"The past few weeks have been wonderful — I've finally gotten some of the family life I missed. Ethan, you've given me that feeling of — of being a real mother."

"But my body isn't what it was. I'm not young."

"About the condo — any idea when it'll be ready?"

Richard and Ethan fell over themselves.

"Mom, the renovation still needs another six months. Let us stay through that and we'll be out of your hair."

She nodded, nodded — then winced, rubbed her lower back, sighed.

Richard and Ethan exchanged a look. They got it.

Ethan jumped in. "Mom, you've been carrying too much. From now on, I'll handle the housework. You just rest. Once Dad's place is ready, we'll move as a family. The three of us. Let the critics eat their hearts out."

Vivienne beamed, called him a good son.

Richard promised to cut his outings short and help around the apartment.

She let it go. She didn't mention that she'd seen him at the chess bench.