Chapter 9: Sunday Spoons

"I wasn't snooping," I said. "The light was on."

"I know."

He crossed the room in his pajama pants, took the envelope from the drawer, and held it in both hands.

"Ingrid Sayre gave me this the day we met you," he said.

"She said Elise left it with her, to be handed over only if the embryos were ever used."

"And you haven't read it."

"It says to open it when they're born."

"Then don't."

His eyes came up.

"It's hers," I said. "She asked for a date, so you wait for the date. I'll wait with you."

He looked at the envelope.

Then he put it back in the drawer, slowly, and slid the drawer shut.

"I don't deserve you," he said, rough.

"I know. Come to bed."

He did.

This time we only slept, with his arm heavy across my belly.

I woke at nine to a tray on the bed, with dry toast cut into triangles.

It was not burned.

On Sunday we drove to Quincy for lunch.

My mother had been cooking since Friday.

Her tiny dining table was covered in food.

There was a ham, a tray of baked ziti, two kinds of potatoes and a salad nobody would touch.

She opened the door in her good apron.

"Letitia," she said. Then she looked at the man behind me and her eyes narrowed. "Mr. Corwin."

"Mrs. Penhale." He held out a bakery box. "I brought pastry."

"Hm."

"And flowers."

She took the flowers, sniffed them, and put them in a jar without saying thank you.

Lunch was an interrogation.

"What time do you wake up?"

"Six."

"Do you drink?"

"Occasionally. Never in front of your daughter, now."

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