Chapter 4: His Mother's Table

Weston's mother lived on the second floor of a brick building in Sunnyside, above a bakery that was closing for the night.

The stairwell smelled of onions and butter.

Claire stood on the landing with her new ring turning on her finger and her old life buzzing in her bag.

"She'll ask a lot of questions," Weston said.

"What do I say?"

"Whatever's true, as long as it's short."

"What's true is that I called you from a sidewalk."

"Then say that. She'll love it."

The door opened before he had knocked.

A small woman stood in it, in an apron with a flour handprint across the front, with gray in her dark hair and her son's eyes.

She looked at Claire from the shoes up.

Then she took Claire's face in both hands and kissed her on each cheek, hard.

"You're thin," she said. "Sit. Weston, take her coat, don't just stand there. I made too much. I always make too much, and today I'm glad."

"Ma, this is Claire."

"I know who it is. You told me an hour ago. I've been shouting at a chicken for sixty minutes."

The flat was small and loud and warm.

There was a table under the window set for three, with a plate in the middle that had been put out for no one in particular.

The radiator knocked.

A cat watched from the top of the refrigerator and plainly disapproved of everybody.

Claire sat where she was pointed and found a glass of red wine in her hand.

She had not eaten since the morning, when she had read a text twice.

Weston's mother put down a bowl of dumplings with a slap.

"So," she said. "How did my son propose?"

Claire opened her mouth.

"I called him," she said.

"From where?"

"A sidewalk. In front of the marriage office. I'd just left someone."

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