Chapter 5: Sunday Roast

The Ekdahl house on Park Point had white shutters, a wraparound porch, and a front hall full of photographs of Magnus's father.

None of them showed Magnus.

"Wipe your feet," Greta said at the door, looking at my boots. "The floors are original."

"Nice to see you too," I said.

Magnus's hand touched the small of my back, once, and was gone.

It was for show, and it was warm.

The dining room held a long table set for five, with a roast in the middle and candles lit though it was still light out.

Trevor stood at the head of it, in a pressed blue shirt.

Shelby sat at his right and half rose when we came in, smiling at me with her hair pulled forward again.

"Linnea," Trevor said gently. "I'm glad you came. I wanted you to know I'm not angry."

"That's kind."

"We all make rash choices when we're hurt."

"Is that what this is?"

"I've asked Mom to be generous," he said. "She's agreed to hear you out."

Magnus pulled out my chair.

I sat.

For ten minutes the table was nothing but forks and the clock in the hall.

Greta carved.

"My husband loved this roast," she said to no one. "He carved it himself every Sunday for thirty years, until the week he died."

"Nineteen," Magnus said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"He carved it for nineteen years. You married him nineteen years ago."

"Don't correct me at his table."

"It's my table," Magnus said, mildly. "It's his house. You're the one he asked to stay."

Greta put down the knife.

Trevor smoothed it over at once, the way he always did, with a soft laugh and a hand on his mother's arm.

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