Chapter 5: The Sunday Table

"Sunday," Ingrid said through the phone. "Six o'clock. We will discuss this like a family."

"We'll be there," Dane said, and ended the call.

Ingrid's house in Shaker Heights had white columns and a staircase you could drive a car up.

Bev stayed behind with Timmy and a stack of coloring books.

"Go eat their bread," Bev told me at the elevator. "And remember, you've got nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know."

"Then wear your face like it."

I wore my one good dress, navy blue with a hem I'd let down myself.

The dining room held twelve people.

Three were board members with their wives, and one was a tall man with Demi's chin who was introduced as her father.

Demi sat next to Dane's empty chair in cream silk and shining pearls.

Ingrid put me at the far end, between a stranger and the kitchen door.

"Everyone, this is Hannah," she said. "She used to bake."

"I still bake," I said.

"The baker," she said, as if I hadn't spoken.

A few people smiled politely into their soup.

Dane came in last from taking a call, and he stopped at the sight of the seating chart.

He didn't say a word.

He walked the length of the table, pulled out the chair next to mine, and sat down in it.

The board members looked at each other.

"Dane," Demi said brightly. "Your place is here."

"It's fine where it is."

The main course came, lamb with a rosemary crust.

"I'm told the charity committee made an exception this week," Demi's father said to the table.

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