“An Unexpected Supper Neither Expected”
“Are you mad? We can’t invite them!” Victor drummed his knuckles anxiously on the kitchen counter, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in the too-quiet room.
“Why not? My brother—” Emily crossed her arms, her eyes flickering toward the window where shadows of trees twisted unnaturally.
“Your brother you haven’t seen in fifteen years!” Victor’s voice was a blade, sharp and gliding. “He pops up out of nowhere, and suddenly you’re asking him for supper?”
“He didn’t just appear,” Emily said, her voice trembling with that brittle calm she always wore near the edges of chaos. “James returned from Manchester. His business collapsed.”
“Of course it did,” Victor hissed, turning in a circle as if the walls might offer an escape. “Now he’s here to leech off the sister he abandoned in her darkest hour. Don’t you think I’ve forgotten?”
Emily bent to polish the stove top, though it gleamed like a mirror already. “I haven’t forgotten. But he’s still my brother.”
“And I’m your husband, and I say no.”
Emily sighed, her fingers brushing a spiderweb that hadn’t existed earlier. “I’ve already invited them. James, his wife Sophie, and their son will arrive tonight.”
Victor closed his eyes, a slow, agonized breath escaping his lips. “And when did you plan on telling me? Five minutes before their cab knocks?”
“…I—”
The phone erupted, a shrill jingle like breaking glass. Emily’s eyes narrowed at the screen. “It’s Katrina.”
“Perfect. Just what we needed,” Victor muttered. “Has she been told about Uncle James’ little visit?”
“No. We haven’t spoken since the argument.” Emily answered, her voice strained.
“Hello?”
“Mum! I hope we’re not interrupting, but Ollie and I are popping by for supper. I’ve got a surprise for you both!”
Victor shook his head violently, but Emily beamed as if chasing down an elusive dream. “Of course, love! We’ll be so thrilled!”
“Great! See you at seven. Oh, and someone’s coming with us.”
Before Emily could ask, the line died.
“You see,” Emily said, turning blindly to Victor, “the whole family is reconnecting tonight!”
Victor’s face darkened. “I don’t see it. You’ve forgotten we have opera tickets at nine? The *Marriage of Figaro*? My gift for our anniversary?”
“Oh!” Emily clutched her cheeks. “Completely slipped my mind.”
“Exactly. Cancel it. Have everyone come back next week.”
“But Vic—”
“None of that!” He vanished, his footsteps muffled as if he were walking through water.
Emily sat at the table, her reflection warping in the window. Guilt tasted bitter as the roast reindeer she’d pulled from the freezer. James, the brother she hadn’t seen since childhood, and Katrina, whose rebellious years were a thorn in her heart, stilled her hands.
When Victor returned, the kitchen smelled of juniper berries and lavender. “You’ve made a mess of it,” he said, his voice flat as a stone.
Emily dabbed her hands with a towel. “But isn’t this beautiful? The family together again?”
Victor rolled his eyes. “What family? A man who vanished for fifiteen years? A daughter who hasn’t called in ages? And that stranger-in-law with his shadow of despair?”
“Maybe tonight fixes it all,” Emily whispered.
Victor said nothing, but trudged away, muttering about ruined evenings.
The doorbell rang. Mrs. Hargrove, the elderly neighbor with a crown of silver curls, stepped in holding a tin of fruitcake. “Emily, dear! I made these today. For your supper party, I presume?”
“Supper party?” Emily blinked, the words already a distant echo. “James is coming, and Katrina with her new husband…”
“New husband?” Mrs. Hargrove gasped, her hands fluttering like moth wings. “Engagement news, then?”
Emily shrugged, but the idea sank roots in the air. “She says she has an announcement. Something important.”
“Well!” Mrs. Hargrove seized her hands. “My nephew Nigel’s in town. Retired military, a widower, from Kent. He’s alone in this city, you know?” She lowered her voice. “Would you ask him to join? He could use the company.”
Emily hesitated. If one chaos had bloomed, why not let it sprawl? “Come at seven. Here.”
Mrs. Hargrove left humming, and Victor’s glare followed her like smoke.
By six, the dining table was set with mismatched silverware, the roast glistening. Emily and Victor stared at each other, the same question unspoken: *Are we now matchmakers?*
The doorbell rang again. A tall man in a moth-eaten uniform stood rigid. “Nigel. From next street, as you asked.”
“Oh, come in!” Emily smiled. “Tea? Stories of your wars?”
The clock ticked backward.
By the time Katrina waltzed in with Oliver, her wild red curls tangled with the autumn wind, and their daughter Polly clutching a stuffed elephant, the house felt two sizes too small. James arrived next, his wife Sophie trailing him, her eyes clouded with resignation.
And then, the clock stopped.
The suppers became a symphony of broken pasts. James, a man with no great stories, admitted his business had crumbled like a pastry over Manchester’s rain. Sophie, quiet as a moth, spoke of working at a chemist’s for “a pittance until we rebuild.”
Katrina glared when Emily flinched. “He left after Grandpa died, didn’t he? Just disappeared?”
“Katrina!” Emily hissed.
“Mother, I’m asking a question.”
The room froze, the tea cups sweating like tiny storms.
Nigel, the retired soldier, raised a wine glass. “Let’s drink to reunions. To second chances.”
The clink of glass shattered the silence.
And then, the impossible began.
They argued, yes, about Oleg’s murky divorce, James’ debts, the shame of old wounds. But by the time the clock reawakened and struck midnight, they were planning.
Nigel’s “dream” of a café surfaced, and suddenly, James was dictating menus, Katrina volunteering as manager, Oleg promising electrical diagrams. Emily—a teacher of literature—was to name the dishes after her favorite novels.
“The Café,” she said, eyes wide. “‘The Family Café.’”
James held her hand across the table. “I’ve wasted years. Forgive me?”
“Forgive you,” she replied, her voice as soft as the falling rain.
By dawn, they left, their silhouettes dissolving into the mist. The kitchen was littered with plates, but the house felt full in a way it hadn’t in years.
Victor held Emily as the sun bled through the windows. “No opera tonight,” he murmured.
“No, but imagine,” she whispered. “A café run by ghosts and second chances.”
And somewhere in the dream, the clock began to tick forward again.
