Chapter 12: Sunday Dinner

My father opened the front door himself.

He was thinner than I remembered, and his hair had gone completely silver.

He stood in the hall under the portrait of my mother, and for a moment neither of us spoke.

"Cecelia," he said.

"Hello, Dad."

"You've kept well."

"So have you."

It was the longest conversation we'd had in seven years, and it was already over.

He led me down the hall to the small dining room.

It was the room where we used to eat on weeknights, with the green wallpaper and the window on the garden.

The table was set for three.

At my mother's end, in her chair, with her napkin in her lap, sat Danielle.

She smiled and lifted her glass an inch.

"Cece," she said. "I'm so glad you came."

Around her neck was my mother's string of pearls.

I stood in the doorway, and the whole house went quiet around me.

Those pearls had been in my mother's jewelry drawer on the day she died.

I had meant to take them when I left.

I had not been able to open the drawer.

"Dad," I said. "Why is she wearing those?"

"Sit down, Cecelia."

"Why is she wearing my mother's pearls?"

"I gave them to her," my father said. "They were mine to give."

"They were not."

I crossed the room.

Danielle leaned back a little in the chair, still smiling, and her eyes slid to my father.

"Let her," he said quietly.

I stood behind Danielle and found the clasp.

It was small and stiff, and my fingers were steady.

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