Chapter 11: Sunday Dinner

The second Sunday, Diane Casto set the dining table for four with the good plates.

I had not been in that house on a Sunday for two years.

The pot roast was already on the table, with carrots, a gravy boat and a lit candle in the middle.

Waylon's father sat at the head of the table with the newspaper folded beside his plate. He nodded at me, and said nothing, and picked up his fork.

Waylon sat across from me, freshly shaved, in a clean shirt.

My phone was in my jacket pocket on the back of my chair, with the recorder running.

Half a block away, Shanna sat in her parked car with her own phone dialed in, listening on mute.

"I'm so glad you came, dear," Diane said, and passed me the carrots. "Eat. You look thin."

"Thank you."

"Waylon has told me about your little misunderstanding. I think we can fix it over a good meal."

"It isn't a misunderstanding," I said.

"Of course it is." Diane smiled. "Every marriage has a rough patch. Men wander. A sensible wife waits."

"Mom," Waylon said softly.

"I'm only saying what everyone knows. Samantha, you work eighty hours a week. A man needs a home, not a roommate."

I put my fork down.

"I'm sure he found a home," I said.

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