“Keep serving. You haven’t earned your seat.”
Teddy held the tray steady.
His nanny turned toward Lavinia.
“It’s his birthday, not a punishment.”
Then Sebastian stopped in the doorway.
“Why is my son wearing an apron?”
His wife straightened beside the dining table.
“Someone has to teach him gratitude.”
But Teddy was looking at his father.
“She said I had to earn being your son.”
Sebastian took the tray from his hands.
Set it on the table.
And turned toward his wife.
The birthday cake hadn’t been touched.
Eight candles waited above a layer of blue icing. A small sugar sailboat leaned against the number eight. Earlier that week, Teddy had explained exactly how he wanted it positioned.
“Like it’s getting somewhere,” he said.
Now he stood beside fourteen seated adults with an apron tied twice around his waist.
His shirt cuffs were damp.
A red mark crossed the heel of one hand where the tray had rested.
Sebastian looked at the empty place beside his own chair.
There was no plate.
No glass.
Not even a folded napkin.
“Who moved his place setting?”
Lavinia gave a short, impatient breath.
“We were in the middle of something.”
“I can see that.”
Teddy reached for the tray again.
Sebastian put his hand beside it.
“You don’t need to carry this.”
“I didn’t finish.”
“You’re finished now.”
His son’s eyes moved toward Lavinia.
Then back.
“But I haven’t got enough.”
Sebastian crouched.
“Enough what?”
Teddy pressed his lips together.
Behind him, Rose, his nanny, answered quietly.
“Points.”
Lavinia turned on her.
“Don’t start.”
Sebastian looked up.
“What points?”
His wife folded her arms.
“A simple system. Since apparently asking him to appreciate what he has wasn’t working.”
Teddy took a folded piece of paper from his apron pocket.
It had become soft from being opened and closed.
He held it toward his father.
Across the top, in Lavinia’s elegant handwriting, were four words.
