Chapter 14
Serena returned to St. Catherine’s one year later.
Not invited by me.
Invited by Martha.
I nearly objected.
Martha stared until I stopped.
Apparently Mafia authority ends at seventy-five-year-old cooks.
Serena came alone.
No Vale staff.
No jewelry beyond small earrings.
She stood in the new kitchen.
Martha handed her an apron.
I almost laughed.
Serena looked horrified.
“Why?”
“You’re helping.”
“With what?”
“Bread.”
Perfect.
Martha made her knead dough for two hours.
No speeches.
No public humiliation.
No donors.
Serena ruined the first batch.
Martha insulted her technique.
By the second, she improved.
I watched from the doorway.
Eventually Serena saw me.
Neither of us moved.
Then she said:
“I’m sorry about the bread.”
I frowned.
“Which bread?”
“Martha’s basket.”
There.
Specific.
“I looked at her dress and decided what she brought had no value.”
Martha kept kneading.
Serena continued.
“I did the same thing with the home.”
Good.
“I saw an old building. An expensive property. A story that could be packaged better somewhere else.”
More.
“And with the children?”
Her voice broke.
“I treated moving them like logistics.”
There.
Then:
“And with you, I treated truth like something I could manage until the wedding made it irrelevant.”
Martha finally looked up.
“Wedding doesn’t make truth irrelevant.”
Serena nodded.
“I know.”
No forgiveness requested.
Better.
She asked if she could donate.
Rose, who had entered behind me, answered:
“Yes.”
Serena looked surprised.
Rose continued.
“Same rules as everyone else.”
No naming rights.
No control.
No special access.
Money without ownership.
Serena agreed.
That impressed me more than a large check.
She left after lunch.
Martha handed me the bread she made.
I tasted it.
Terrible.
“Tell her.”
May you like
“No.”
Cowardice sometimes has healthy uses.
