Vivienne opened the kitchen door before she could negotiate with a dishcloth. Beyond it stood two plates and a small table under an extravagant amount of linen. She had offered Vera a look, and now the offer required the awkward business of letting her see. The cloth remained in place. Vivienne wanted to lift it herself, although she heard how much that sounded like another carefully arranged unveiling. Mockery she could tolerate. Congratulations for possessing a kitchen would be considerably harder to forgive.
Vera regretted the certificate she claimed to have prepared. She would leave the linen alone, but she would not remain in the doorway waiting to be assigned an appropriate reaction. That would turn an ordinary entrance into precisely the ceremony Vivienne was trying to escape. Instead, she asked whether she could move the plates to the counter. Tomorrow she would need somewhere to put her elbows. It seemed more useful to establish their accommodation than to interpret the folds of a tablecloth.
Permission granted, Vivienne removed the cloth entirely. A pale rectangle interrupted the wood. She had sanded that section on Sunday, intending to finish the table before inviting Vera to supper. Then the alternatives had become embarrassingly clear: ask the woman, or spend another week selecting varnish. She had asked. The unfinished patch remained, and she disliked it. Vera's presence did not improve its appearance, whatever other advantages it offered. Vivienne specifically requested that it not be called charming.
It looked unfinished, Vera agreed. There would be no poetry. She put the plates on the counter and caught herself on the brink of recommending an oil. Advice would have been easy; it would also have converted a supper invitation into a maintenance visit with remarkable speed. She withheld it. Instead, she asked whether Vivienne wanted the cloth back for the meal. Covering a surface she disliked need not become evidence of retreat. Coming into the kitchen had not given Vera ownership of its furnishings.
The linen would return tomorrow. Vivienne liked it, and she had no intention of cultivating a moral attachment to splinters. Vera was attractive while withholding advice, but even that pleasure did not oblige her to dine on bare wood. Tonight, the cloth could stay folded. With the table exposed and its future covering settled, Vivienne turned to something less conveniently visible. Vera had been accommodating about the proposed cold supper. Was that what she wanted, or had she simply decided that the hostess ought not be startled? Vivienne asked for one preference she had not already chosen on Vera's behalf.
Something hot, Vera said. Potatoes, specifically, with enough butter to defeat any claim that they represented a sensible compromise. She had accepted the cold supper because Vivienne had looked relieved by it. Afterwards, she had enjoyed being the guest who required nothing. That role had been flattering while it lasted. A direct question about what she would like to eat made its limitations harder to ignore. She offered Vivienne the possibility of refusal. An honest no would be preferable to an agreement that left tomorrow's saucepan carrying an unspoken grievance.
Potatoes were possible, Vivienne answered, and she wanted them too. Butter was agreed. Mustard could occupy her side of the table, offending Vera from a civil distance. But the cold dish would stay on the menu. She had chosen it because she liked it, before appreciating how well it could endure a delayed arrival. It had acquired a practical defence without losing its original reason for being there. There would be both dishes. If the potatoes needed another ten minutes, Vera could keep her company without assuming responsibility for their rescue.
Vera liked mustard. Vivienne would need another scandal if she intended to divide the table. As for the cooking, Vera would answer if asked for help; otherwise, the saucepan could remain entirely Vivienne's concern. The agreement left room for company without a transfer of command. The plates were on the counter, the cloth was folded, and tomorrow's supper now included a preference Vera had actually expressed. Neither woman had needed to praise the unfinished wood to get that far.
One detail still resisted inspection. Before leaving that evening, Vera wanted to know what the cold dish was. Vivienne had defended its ability to wait, then defended its place beside the potatoes, without once naming it. Beneath those sensible arguments lay the choice made before a guest's imagined arrival began rearranging everything. Vera asked what Vivienne had wanted for herself. The question stayed between them, as specific now as the pale rectangle on the table, awaiting an answer that neither linen nor mustard could supply.