The atmosphere was still seething, though. The clouds of tension didn’t break until Brykia knocked on the door a few minutes later. “Madame Iris says the men must be fed,” Brykia said as she wheeled a serving cart into the room. She laid out a cheese and fruit tray—standard fare at Mayfair family gatherings—and then handed George his own bowl of fruit, primarily red grapes. “Because of your lactose intolerance,” she explained. “These ones never touched any cheese.” George grunted something that might have been a thank you, then tore the plastic wrap from his dish. Marty couldn’t resist the brie with fig paste, and scarfed it down with enough bread to absorb the nerves boiling like acid in his belly. For a while, everyone ate quietly. It made for a nice change. The room stayed pretty much silent until George let out a loud hissing noise. Marty turned just in time to see him brushing his arm against his flowing satin dress. “You okay, Uncle George?” George stared at his wrist, saying nothing.
