Chapter 5: Sunday Dinner

Sunday dinner at the Fjelstads' was at five o'clock sharp, and it had been since before I was born.

I came at ten to, in my own truck, with my own bottle of water in my bag.

Margit opened the door herself.

She said nothing about the casserole, and I said nothing about the supply room.

The table was set for four.

Anders was already seated at the head, in a clean flannel shirt, staring at his empty plate.

He stood up when I came in.

I sat down at the far end, as far from him as the table allowed.

Signe came out of the kitchen with a basket of rolls and kissed my cheek.

"I'm so glad you came," she said. "I was so worried. I've hardly slept."

She smelled of lavender and warm bread.

She looked tired, and her eyes were red.

If I hadn't known better, I'd have believed every word.

Margit served the roast herself.

I watched her cut every slice and set every plate down, and I took mine without looking at Signe.

Signe held up a bottle of red wine.

"Cora?"

"No, thank you."

"A little. It's a celebration. You came back."

"I'm on antibiotics."

It was the first lie I had ever told in that house, and it came easily.

Signe's smile did not move.

"Oh, of course," she said. "I'll get you water."

She poured herself a glass of wine and Anders a glass of water, and she went to the kitchen.

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