She cooks three courses, of course; it's only proper. She makes Greek salad and three-spice rice and a marinated roast and she bakes a pie with no apples. It's all very varied and flavorful and sure to appeal to manly carnivores and coy lettuce nibblers and ten-year-old kids (in age or in spirit) alike.
She tidies up the house, which, in the absence of an impressionable youth to educate on housekeeping habits, has begun to resemble the sort of den a hurried scholar who can only find what he's looking for when it's situated in such handy places as the fruit bowl or the bathroom floor or the narrow space behind the washing machine would keep.
She wears a pretty dress, which is nice and nostalgic and also happens to be her only option since all of her pantsuits are overdue for a wash. It is truly a pity dry cleaners willing to provide services to the Evil Queen are so hard to come by these days.
She sits down at the kitchen counter, breathes in the scent of cooking roast and freshly baked pie, and waits.
.
They arrive together (a family), all laughter and fondness and smiles. David offers her a bottle of red wine and an awkward salute; Emma, a loaf of fancy bread and a polite nod; and Mary Margaret, a box of lemon meringue swirls and a bittersweet smile. Henry says, "Hi, Mom," and she immediately bends down and wraps him in a hug (not too tight, not too close, not too long; better not to be presumptuous).
She offers them seats in the living room while she pulls out the wineglasses and David uncorks the wine. She gives Henry a glass of strawberry juice (close enough), and a small slice of the blueberry pie when he still looks unsatisfied (he waits for Emma's go-ahead to take the first bite).
The awkward silence doesn't last all that long once she sinks into the single-seat sofa and arranges herself as casually as the dress will allow and says something nonsensical but complimentary about the depth of the wine. Mary Margaret quickly launches into a story about the amusing notions the kids in her class have in regard to the sun and the moon and the rest of the solar system, and Henry munches contentedly on his pie while the adults jabber on.
Soon the oven timer rings and she gets up to take out the roast and prepare the dinner table. It's several minutes and five elegantly folded napkins later that a sheepish-looking Emma enters the dining room and offers to lend a hand.
They set everything up together – the salad in a fashionably asymmetrical glass bowl, the rice in a large clay dish, the pie back in the oven to soak up the heat – without exchanging a word. Once, she accidentally brushes Emma's elbow and receives a strange look, and it is the extent of their interaction.
Once the table is ready it looks rather lovely, and Emma looks slightly grumpy and pleased. Upon entry Mary Margaret promptly comments that everything smells wonderful, and David gazes down at her with fond eyes, probably proud of his wife's complete inability to be anything but gracious (and saccharine, just a tad).
Since Henry elects to sit down between Mary Margaret and Emma, she ends up with David and Mary Margaret on either side, and immediately regrets that the table is round. It would probably take little more than a quick flourish to turn the table a more Mary Margaret- and David-excluding shape, but that would be magic and promises take precedence over displeasing seating arrangements.
Mary Margaret repeatedly voices her enjoyment of the food, and Emma and David nod their agreement. Personally, she is a little more interested in Henry's opinion, and his rapidly emptying plate and the several grains of rice stuck to his cheeks are a very satisfying reply. She even manages to refrain from grimacing when he accepts a small helping of salad on Emma's insistence.
They drink some more wine (and strawberry juice), and eventually she has to pull another bottle from the liquor cabinet. Emma and David and Mary Margaret and Henry smile and tease each other and laugh over private jokes, and her frown deepens whenever David has to lean over her to whisper something in Mary Margaret's ear. But when the conversation steers in a more sober direction and Henry starts to look bored, she winks at him, and the thing inside her that contains the word Mom turns to amorphous mush when Henry winks back.
By the time they get to dessert all the adults are grateful they live close by enough to not have to worry about a designated driver, and assure each other they'll come get the car in the morning. She says nothing about being able to drive.
The conversation turns a little bit silly, and almost without realizing it, she laughs along. Perhaps it's the full stomachs or the central heating or the buzz from the alcohol or the closeness of the seats to each other, but somehow the tension evaporates for a little while and for a moment she can almost imagine that she is part of this odd little thing that might be called a family.
She makes coffee when the buzz dies down and Henry starts to look a little tired. Emma thanks her for dinner and Mary Margaret adds something enthusiastic and David makes the obligatory offer to help with the dishes, which she emphatically refuses. Henry tries to sneak a sip of Emma's coffee and she responds by inhaling it in one gulp and choking for two minutes straight.
When they leave she waves them goodbye, and both Henry and Mary Margaret wave back.
.
She clears the dishes and pours herself another glass of scotch. (Her nose feels rather stuffy and her eyes kind of itch. It must be allergy season). She sits down with her tax records (they have to be organized at one point; might as well be now), focuses on the numbers, and tries very, very hard not to think about the fact that there is only one plate, one knife, one fork, one teaspoon, one lipstick-stained wineglass in the kitchen sink.