FEAST

It was a painfully hot day in August when I was laying the final stones behind the Barton Manor. I hesitated to refer to it as a 'backyard' because it was bigger than most public parks I had seen.

The back of the four-story mansion opened via three sets of French doors, onto a brand new cobblestone patio that surrounded their lake of a swimming pool. Beyond that, a stone staircase that led down to a perfectly manicured lawn, the immensity of which was comparable to a football field.

As if the environment weren't serene enough, the entire property was surrounded by a halo of well-kept wild flowers of such brilliant colors that Monet wouldn't even know where to start.

I remember checking my watch to see that it was 6:30pm when I sent the rest of the team home, anything to avoid the union's overtime rate cutting into my company profit. I remained at the Barton Manor, off the clock, to finish sweeping up and gathering my tools.

As I loaded the last of my things into my bag, I took one last proud survey of the finished project. That's when I noticed the threatening storm clouds approaching on the horizon. I headed towards the house and knocked on the center set of doors in the hopes of finalizing the payment before the storm hit.

At first there was no response. I tried to exercise my patience as I stood there awaiting a reply. The last thing I wanted to do was scare off a potential referral from clients as well off and influential as the Bartons. When I felt the first drops of rain start to hit my shoulders, I caved to my impatience and knocked once more, a little more steadily this time. Again, there was no answer.

The drops of rain began to increase in both numbers and size. I shielded my eyes around one of the panes of glass, hoping to see some movement inside. As I leaned in and made contact with the door, it pushed open a crack.

Were it not for the sudden lightening strike combined with the deafening crack of thunder, I would have remained outside the door, but alas, I opted to step inside in the hopes of seeking temporary shelter.

I found myself in a massive dining room, my eyes scanning the elaborate décor. The walls were paneled in mahogany, the same that was used for the floorboards. The room was accented with a burgundy carpet that lay under the perfectly finished dining table before me.

Upon the table were two place settings, each with more variations of cutlery than I had ever seen before. The place settings sat upon crisp, smoky grey linen placemats. The individual settings were connected via a charcoal grey table runner that covered the distance between the two ends like a runway between two thrones.

Presiding over the middle of the table was a single portrait hung prominently on the wall, and lit by a soft lamp, which bounced its light off the golden frame. The portrait was of an old woman, with a cold stare that could make the bravest of men feel uncomfortable.

I tried calling out to see if I could get a response, "Hello? It's Jason from Stoneworks! I'm all finished up out back, just need someone's signature! Hello?"

After a brief moment of silence I heard soft, yet hurried footfalls echoing through the grand hallways. Finally, Mrs. Barton called out, "Just a second!"

I waited, listening to the footfalls for what felt like an eternity before she came around the corner of the archway connecting the dining room and living room. Based on her the cream colored silk robe that was slipping off her porcelain shoulder, I had caught her at an inconvenient time.

As she turned the corner, she stopped for a moment. A single strand of her raven hair swooped down over her right eye, resulting in a playfully hidden glance. I stood there, dumbfounded at the vision before me. I had seen her coming and going over the past few months, always wearing black business attire, always in a hurry and rarely in a good mood. What little conversations we had shared, had been brief and solely oriented around the work I was doing for her Husband.