Chapter 24: A Place Laid

The lake house had a Christmas tree in the front window in February, and it was lit.

Snow lay deep on the lawn.

Sylvia stood on the porch in her green cardigan and pearls, watching Harrison park the car he had borrowed from Pete.

"You're late," she said.

"It's a four-hour drive, Mom."

"It's been twelve years. Come in."

The hall smelled of cinnamon and pine.

The housekeeper took our coats, and she was smiling openly now, with no apron and no effort to hide it.

In the dining room, the long table was set for five.

There were candles and holly and a goose.

There was a place at the head for Sylvia, and one at the foot for Harrison, and Pete was already in the chair next to the gravy.

"Don't touch the gravy," Sylvia said.

"I wasn't touching it. I was guarding it."

"That's touching."

At the right hand of Sylvia's chair, there was a card on a plate.

It was cream paper, folded, with my name on it in blue ink.

Sylvia had put a place there twelve years in a row.

I picked up the card and opened it.

Inside, in the same hand, she had written the same thing every year, and now she had written it once more.

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