Chapter 14: The Coat on the Table

I opened the cabin door myself.

Seven years of Christmases had taught my hand exactly how hard to push it.

Heat and cinnamon rolled out, and the noise of fourteen people stopped in the middle.

The long table stood in front of the fireplace, set for brunch, under the red tablecloth I had bought in a sale three Novembers ago.

Clinton stood at the far end with a glass in his hand.

He wore the green quarter-zip sweater I'd given him for his birthday.

He saw me, and for one second his whole face went empty.

Then it filled again, soft and sorry, and he set the glass down.

"Dawn," he said. "You came."

"Wednesday," I said. "Your mother expected me."

Marjorie sat at his right, in her camel cardigan, with her hands folded.

She looked at the box in my arms, and then at the man who had come in behind me, and her mouth went thin.

Kendra spoke first.

"Oh, you brought him."

"I brought the coat," I said. "Stian drove."

"Your boyfriend drove you to our Christmas."

"My friend's brother drove me," I said. "He's staying by the door."

"I am," Stian said quietly from behind my shoulder.

Someone near the window laughed, and stopped.

I looked down the table.

An uncle in a flannel shirt, two cousins from Madison, a great-aunt with a cane, and a row of children's faces over their plates.

All of them had eaten my pies at this table.

At the head of it, nearest the fire, sat Clinton's father.

He was very still, and his hands lay flat on the cloth.

He gave me the smallest nod.

"I'm late," I said to him.

"You're on time," he said.

Clinton's smile wobbled.

"Dad, we were just about to start."

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