Chapter 24: Sunday Table

The Livingstone dining room had a long table, a white cloth and twelve chairs.

At the head of it stood a place card in Mrs. Livingstone's shaky handwriting.

*Coralie Marsh Livingstone.*

The last time I had been in this room, my card had sat beside the kitchen door.

Now the kitchen door swung open every few minutes, and it was not the housekeeper coming through it.

Dalton came first, in his shirtsleeves, carrying a roast on a silver platter with both hands.

He set it down in front of Mr. Livingstone and stepped back to check the angle.

"The housekeeper has the day off," said Mrs. Livingstone, from her chair on my left.

She had color in her face for the first time since I'd met her.

"I told the boys they were serving."

"All five," I said.

"All five. I put them on a list."

The cardiologist came in with a bowl of green beans and a dish towel over his shoulder.

The pilot followed with the gravy boat held out in front of him, very level.

Colton carried the bread.

He put it down by Winifred, who sat halfway down the table with her cane hooked on the chair.

"Young man," she said. "Is it warm?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then you may stay."

Winslow sat on my right, with his hand resting on my knee under the tablecloth.

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