Chapter 4: The Parish Luncheon

At six the next morning a driver left a manila envelope beside Cecilia's breakfast plate.

Inside were two sheets of paper stamped with the hospital's name.

The first said her blood had been tested on arrival and that no alcohol was found.

The second was a copy of the state police crash report.

It said the right front tire had failed on a wet road, and that the driver had been sober and belted in.

She looked up.

Ettore stood at the sideboard with his coffee, not looking at her.

"I woke a doctor at midnight," he said. "Zia said you'd need paper."

"You did this for me?"

"I did it for the truth."

Zia was busy at the stove and made a small satisfied noise.

"The Altar Society luncheon is at noon," Zia said. "Sixty women, in the parish hall. Simona runs it."

Cecilia folded the pages and put them in her bag.

"I'm going."

"I'll come," Ettore said.

"No."

"Cecilia."

"If you walk in with me, they'll say I hid behind you." She met his eyes. "I'll do this myself."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Then I'll wait in the car," he said.

The parish hall of Saint Rita's smelled of coffee and floor wax.

Sixty women sat at round tables under a banner that said Blessed Are the Merciful.

Simona stood at the head table in a black dress with a teapot in her hands, and every head turned when Cecilia walked in.

The whispering began at the back of the room and rolled forward.

Simona set down the teapot.

"Cecilia," she said, her eyes filling at once. "Oh, honey. You shouldn't be on your feet."

"I'm on them."

"I've been sick about it, I've been praying for you all night."

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