Chapter 16: The Birthday Dinner

"Uninvite him," I said.

"Maisie, I can't take back my husband's invitation to a man who apologized."

"Please."

It was the first time I'd ever said that word to her.

The line went quiet.

"Tell me why," Anne said.

I couldn't.

Not on a sidewalk on Wickenden Street, with a life nobody else remembered.

"Then he'll come," Anne said slowly. "And you'll sit where I can see you. And Thatcher will sit where he can see him."

On Saturday the dining room was full of candles and white roses.

Fourteen at the table.

Anne in gray silk. Mr. Stanhope at the far end. Two of Anne's oldest friends and their husbands, and the board chairman's wife from the gala.

The woman in green pearls from the summer party was there too, wearing them again.

Lyle came in a borrowed blazer that pulled across his shoulders, with Doreen on his arm in a dress that still had a fold line from the store.

He shook hands all around the table.

He said, "Happy birthday, ma'am," and kissed Anne's hand, and the board chairman's wife laughed like it was charming.

Dena came in behind them in a plain black dress, no makeup.

Anne put her in the chair at her left.

My old chair.

I sat across from her.

Thatcher sat two places down from Lyle, and didn't eat much.

We got through the soup.

We got through the fish.

When the plates went out, Dena pushed her chair back and stood up.

She didn't tap her glass.

She didn't need to. Everybody was already looking at her.

Lyle smiled up at her.

"Mrs. Stanhope," Dena said. "Happy birthday. I asked to come tonight because I owe you something, and I owe it in front of people."

Her hands were shaking.

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