A second turkey. The one I had nurtured for hours suddenly seemed like an audition piece she was waiting to critique.
“That’s very generous,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack my jaw.
She kissed Henrik’s cheek, ignored the tension in the air, and marched straight into the kitchen. “Where’s the carving set? I brought my own sharpener in case yours isn’t sufficient.”
I caught Henrik’s eye. He tried for a soothing look but only managed the expression of a man stuck between two fires. Traitor, I thought.
The evening actually began well enough. The food was praised, my pie was admired, and conversation flowed easily. For a brief time, Margot sipped her wine in near silence, watching everything like a general surveying her troops. But peace was not her style.
She stood suddenly, glass raised. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present my pièce de résistance.” She whisked away the foil from her turkey.
What lay beneath made me freeze mid-breath.
Pinned neatly to the golden-brown breast was a laminated photograph of my face, grinning awkwardly as if I had volunteered for this grotesque display.
Gasps ricocheted around the table. Beatrice sputtered into her wine. Henrik’s young cousin guffawed without restraint. Margot beamed like a cat who had cornered a mouse. “It seemed appropriate,” she announced. “Since Elise has been such a turkey this year!”
The room hung in a strange silence, caught between discomfort and amusement. Heat rushed to my cheeks. She had managed to humiliate me in front of everyone, in my own house, on my own holiday.
But this time, I refused to let her walk away victorious.
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