The silence in the Mercedes on the drive home was distinct from the one that had preceded it. It wasn't the charged, electric silence of two people holding hands in the dark. It was the frosty, jagged silence of a wife who was furious.
Helen sat in the back seat this time, arms crossed over her chest, staring out the window.
"That was incredibly rude, Damon," she said finally, her voice cutting through the hum of the tires.
Damon gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. "I told you, Helen. I have a headache. The sun was glaring right in my eyes."
"You couldn't have waited ten minutes for dessert?" Helen countered. "Mr. Henderson looked confused. And poor Isabella... she probably thinks we hate her."
"Isabella will survive missing a lemon tart," Damon muttered.
"It's not about the tart! It's about networking! It's about social standing!" Helen sighed, rubbing her temples. "I'm going to have to send flowers. And a very apologetic note."
