Anna was pacing the kitchen, her knuckles rapping nervously against the countertop.
“Are you mad? We can’t invite them!” Victor hissed, eyes fixed on the clock like it might delay the inevitable.
“And why not? My brother’s come back from Calgary,” she replied, turning to the window as if the rain-streaked glass might shield her.
“Your brother you haven’t seen in fifteen years! He pops up out of nowhere, and suddenly you’re hosting a feast?”
“He didn’t just appear,” Anna snapped, her voice tight but measured. “Eric left his business in Calgary for good. You think he’d risk his pride again after everything?”
“That’s exactly what he’s doing,” Victor said, hands on his hips. “He’s here to borrow a fiver from the sister he abandoned when times got rough. You remember?”
Anna sighed, wiping a spot on the already gleaming stove. “I remember. But he’s still my brother.”
“And I’m your husband, and I say no.”
A phone buzzed. Anna froze.
“Emily,” Victor muttered. “You’re not going to tell me she’s in the loop about this little gathering?”
“She doesn’t know,” Anna admitted, answering the call. “Hello? Emily?”
“Mom!” came the chipper voice. “Ollie and I can stop by tonight for dinner. Got some big news!”
Victor groaned under his breath.
“Oh, definitely! We’ll be so glad to see you!” Anna chirped, her smile sharp as a knife.
“Great! See you at seven. And I’m bringing someone too—don’t worry, it’s a surprise!” The line went dead.
“Brilliant,” Victor said flatly. “Now we’ve got the whole brood descending. What’s the play for the opera tonight, by the way?”
“Um…” Anna pressed both palms to her cheeks. “I’d forgotten entirely!”
“See? You’re all in this together. Call them off. It’s your twentieth anniversary, and you’ve never been one to crumble under pressure.”
But the sizzling meat in the oven and the rising scent of rosemary said otherwise.
By six, the kitchen was a symphony of aromas and clinking cutlery. Victor emerged from the study, glancing at the table.
“You’ve gone ahead, I see,” he said, not unkindly.
“Eric and Emily turning up didn’t exactly give me time to consult the stars,” Anna said, handing him a mug of tea. “You know, it’s better they come than sit in the cold. Besides, Nigel from next door might pop by too. Old Mrs. Thompson reckons he needs an activity—was in the Korean War.”
“Brilliant. Now we’re running a social service.”
“She’s got a point. He’s charming, by the way. I’d say we’re in for a night of tales.”
Victor grunted, but the table began to fill. First Eric, gaunt and sheepish in his old blazer, trailing a quiet Clara and their sulky teen, Grant. Then Emily, radiant in a sunflower dress, her new husband Ollie flanking her—sturdy, middle-aged, with a mousy seven-year-old clutched to his hand.
“Polina, this is Grandma and Grandpa,” Emily introduced, eyes brimming.
“Emily, wait—” Victor began, but it was too late. The room erupted.
Polina, wide-eyed, skittered between Grant’s phone and the roast, while Nigel regaled them with tales of the landmine he’d dodged in 1952. Ollie, a factory manager, complimented the potatoes.
“It’s got a kick, the rosemary,” he said, nodding. “Where’d you learn to cook like that, Anna?”
“Dinner parties, mostly,” she said, thumbing a wine glass. “Though I’ve got to thank Emily for the zested lemon confit.”
The evening unfolded like someone’s long-forgotten script. Eric confessed he’d lost everything. Ollie, to everyone’s shock, offered to fix the old grange hall for a new café. Nigel, eyes alight, snapped his fingers.
“Of course! I’ll cater it. Make a go of it. Clara, you’ve got that passion for baking, haven’t you?”
Clara, who’d been picking at her peas, beamed. “I did an evening class once. I mean, if you’ll—”
“Perfect! And you, Ollie—y’know, plumbing. We’ll need that for the kitchen fit-out.”
By midnight, the kitchen was a tangle of plans and plans. Eric and Anna embraced, murmuring apologies. Emily and Victor shared a shared a look, the kind that said, *How did this happen?*
“Marriage of Figaro tickets,” Victor reminded Anna as the last guest left.
“More like a family reunion,” she laughed. “But I think a café just became more viable. You can write the menu. You know how to make a pun work.”
Victor rolled his eyes but smiled. “A team brought together by accident. Pity the opera didn’t know what it was missing.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. Somewhere, a kettle whistled. And somewhere, a plan was already being sketched.
