“When I refused to cook from this box,” she said, “I was told I was delaying lunch service.”
“Who told you that?” Judge Warren asked.
My mother glanced toward Victor Hale.
“Mr. Hale.”
Victor adjusted his tie and gave a faint shake of his head, as if disappointed by her memory.
His disappointment did not frighten me anymore.
It used to.
When I was younger, I had seen him once at the school’s holiday charity dinner. I was seven then, helping Mom carry trays in the kitchen because the sitter canceled and there was no one else to watch me. Mr. Hale walked through the kitchen without looking at anyone’s faces. He inspected the silver warming dishes, complained that one lid had fingerprints, and told my mother that Crestwood families expected excellence.
