UPDATE: Listen while you read along!
Genevieve is celebrating a milestone birthday today. A day that could be described as a most ordinary day if not for the events that transpired that very same evening.
To watch Genevieve move about her dining room table, putting down plates and building fancy cranes out of napkins, you wouldnât know she had just turned seventy-five years old. And as she busied herself around the house, making sure everything was absolutely perfect before her guests arrived, she thought back to the last birthday she chose to throw for herself. It was her fiftieth and it did not go according to plan. Many who she considered to be her closest and dearest friends didnât show up and the ones who did came empty-handed, yet expected to be watered and fed just the same. It was a night Genevieve would rather have forgotten ever happened but she couldnât.
The doorbell rang, making her hand slip while pouring wine into tall stemmed glasses she had neatly arranged on a sterling silver tray by the front door. She quickly cleaned up the spill with a napkin close by and rushed to open the door.
Heather.
âGenny, darling,â she shouted, stepping through the front door. She had a way of making each word drag on far longer than necessary as if she were singing all the time. âThe place hasnât changed a bit. You really should get help around here.â Heather removed her wrap coat and held it out for Genevieve to take. She grabbed it by the collar tightly, imagining it was her best friendâs neck instead, and placed it gruffly on the coat rack that was just inches away from them both. Heather continued to drone on and on about the decor and the fact that the house was much too big for a woman of so many years. Genevieve wanted to remind her that she was, in fact, five years younger than Heather, but why start an argument so early in the evening?
It wasnât too long before all her other guests had arrived. Late. But Genevieve knew that. She was just glad they all showed up this time and made sure to mention that every chance she got. She hoped to get sincere apologies as she did so. Instead, she got stale excuses as to why they couldnât show up, bother to call, or even to check in on her in the past fifteen years. They all had their own lives, families to raise, mouths to feed. Genevieve never married. Men, as she liked to say, were nothing more than play-things for women and she would never give on the satisfaction of possessing her or her vast fortune.
Genevieve is an award-winning thriller writer. Sheâd even been hailed as the female Stephen King by the Quarterly Review. Her trophies lined the mantel in her grand living room and her books, neatly arranged on a tall shelf. Whenever she had guests theyâd always want her to sign one to keep. Freeloaders. But she knew no one from this crowd would want a book or a signature. In fact, many of them kept their distance from her accolades and remained huddled in the center of the room for most of the evening.
When eight oâclock rolled around Genevieve excused herself, not that anyone was listening, and walked purposefully to the kitchen. She opened the back door to a tall slender gentleman, dressed from head to toe in his chefâs attire. Complete with a tall white hat, apron, and sensible shoes. His face was expressionless though it was hard to tell what he was thinking beneath his thick beard and mustache. He couldâve been Genevieveâs age or older with all the wrinkles around his dark brown eyes. Then he smiled broadly and she was taken aback by how easily the years seemed to slip away by that one act.
âYou must be the birthday girl?â He held up a black duffel bag that looked more like a physicianâs bag than a chefâs and stepped through the door to take in Genevieveâs kitchen.
The island in the center was large enough to seat all of her guests with plenty of elbow room to spare and she had more counter space than appliances. All shiny and new and hardly ever used. She had a maid who came every other day to clean and prepare her meals that she kept in neatly labeled Tupperware containers in her double-wide refrigerator. It was too much for one person to own but she didnât care.
âAre you the birthday girl?â He put his duffel down gently on the island and clicked it open, removing several rolled-up items. He then proceeded to unroll them and reveal large carving knives and other tools Genevieve had no idea what they were used for.
âYes, yes, I am. Sorry, itâs just been quite some time since Iâve been called a birthday girl,â she said.
âOf course. Now,â he said, clapping his hands together and taking in a deep breath, âyouâve already placed your order online. As promised, it will be delivered exactly as it was before. Iâll need you to sign here, stating that you agree to the meal as ordered.â
He pulled out a clipboard from his duffel back that clearly could not have fit in there unless it was folded. She took it from him and flipped it over, expecting to see creases where it bent in half, but it was one solid board. Turning it back over she read the top word that was in large, bold font: CONTRACT. The rest was a lot of legalese that she couldnât be bothered with and hurriedly signed her name on the line at the bottom and handed it back to him. He glanced at her signature and placed it back in his duffel.
âExcellent. Now, you attend to your guests, Genevieve, and Iâll have your meal ready in about thirty minutes.â
âThirty minutes? ButâŠbut youâve only brought that bag? Surely you havenât enough food in there to feed us all?â
âDonât be silly, Genevieve. The food is out in my car. Iâm going to bring it in once I have the kitchen all to myself. I wouldnât want my trade secrets getting out. You understand?â He winked at her and smiled again, a twinkle in his eye. She nodded her head and left her kitchen to return to her guests as he suggested.
âThere you are, Genny. We were just talking about the last time we were all together. Do you remember?â Cheryl never wanted to talk about the present. She always wanted to bring up the past as if they were good times worth remembering. Genevieve wondered if thatâs because her two failed marriages and children who never speak to her make her yearn for the days when she was actually liked.
Genevieve nodded in answer to Cherylâs question. âIt was our twentieth high school reunion.â A day Genevieve had actually forgotten until now. The year she became an overnight success with her debut novel and was the guest of honor at her former high school. She was asked to give a speech and was making her way to the stage when a fight broke out between two men over the prom queen of yesteryear. It was during this fight that Genevieve was pushed into the punchbowl table, covering her dress in red. It wouldnât have been so bad if her friends hadnât joined in on the laughter instead of helping her up or offering to take her home, neither of which any of them did. They laughed now with the memory of that night and Genevieve had to swallow back her anger as she lifted a wine glass and tapped it with her long red fingernails to get the room silent.
âI want to thank you all for coming. I invited you all today not just to celebrate my seventy-fifth birthday, but to show there are no hard feelings about none of you bothering to show up for my fiftieth.â The room started to buzz again with everyone chiming in to repeat their excuses. She raised her hands to silence them. âI have a surprise for you all. I read about this private chef who creates these extraordinary historical meals. The reviews say it feels like youâre transported back to that time. Thatâs how real and authentic the meals are. I hired him and heâs right now preparing a birthday feast we will all never forget.â
There were murmurings of curiosity and excitement that could be felt in the air as they followed Genevieve from the living room into the dining room that she had prepared. Everyone took a seat, with Genevieve at the head of the table, and when she sat down a door swung open to reveal the chef holding a large silver tray. On the tray was a large white porcelain pot with a lid and a ladle handle poking out the top. He placed the tray down on a nearby table that had all the bowls, plates, and utensils necessary for the meal to be a success.
He proceeded to ladle soup into bowls two at a time and pass each to Genevieve who would pass it down to the person next to her. They continued in this fashion until everyone had a bowl in front of them.
The aroma of the soup was so enticing that everyone picked up their spoon and began eating. All that could be heard was the sound of slurping and spoons clinking against the bowls. Everyone was eating. Everyone, that is, except Genevieve. Instead, she looked on at her guests with a smile on her face. And not unlike the chef, if her guests had bothered to look at her, they would notice how much younger this act made her look.
Genevieve rose to her feet and spoke these words to her guests who were too busy gorging themselves on what would become their last meal. âI wish I could say it pains me to witness the end of your lives, but it doesnât. In fact, I will consider this to be the best birthday Iâve ever had. And I have all of you to thank for it.â
As Genevieve slowly drinks her glass of wine she hears the first bang of someoneâs head hitting the dining room table. Then another. And another. Soon, itâs just Heather left, looking at her once best friend. She reached out her hand to grab Genevieve for help but it was too late. Like the others, her head fell into her bowl of poisoned soup.
Genevieve lets her empty glass fall to the floor and shatter. What difference does it make now? Her guests have left her table quite a mess. Soup spilled everywhere. She turns her attention to the chef whoâs beaming with pride at the good work heâs done and the accurate meal heâs recreated.
âMy compliments to the chef,â she said, and without a moment of hesitation, she picks up a spoonful of delicious poison from the bowl in front of her and places it ever so carefully into her mouth.
FULL DISCLOSURE: 1. Iâm not perfect. 2. Iâm not rich. Keeping those two things in mind, you may have come across typos in grammar and punctuation. My feelings wonât be hurt if you point them out in the comments.SUBSTACK RECOMMENDATIONS
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