Her voice was sharp and quick, climbing in pitch at the end.

“We don’t leave raw edges showing at the table.”

Olivia, a little girl with pale blond curls, twisted the pink ribbon on her white dress and ducked her head.

“I’m trying, Mommy,” Olivia whispered.

“Trying isn’t the same thing as doing it right,” Vanessa said.

She turned to me without unfolding her arms.

“Rachel, Mom needs those white embroidered tablecloths brought down from the linen closet upstairs.”

“Where are they kept?” I asked.