Chapter 5: Sunday Dinner

Sheridan met me at the gate on Sunday with a signed paper in her hand.

"The letter's suspended," she said. "Dad did it this morning. Dinner is allowed."

Kirk sat in the truck at the curb with the engine off.

I did not look back at him.

The dining room had not changed in five years.

The same long walnut table, the same chandelier, the same portrait of my grandfather watching the salt.

My father sat at the head.

He did not stand up.

My mother kissed my cheek and pulled out my chair.

Her hands shook on the back of it.

There were five places set.

The fifth was at the foot of the table, across from mine.

It had a plate, a folded napkin, and a glass of red wine filled to the line.

"That's Chadwick's," Sheridan said gently. "We set it every Sunday. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind," I said.

My father cut his chicken into small, even squares.

"Here are the terms," he said, without looking up.

"You work at the foundation Monday through Friday, eight to five."

"You speak to no reporters."

"You do not discuss the trial with anyone, in this house or outside it."

"And in a year?"

"In a year we discuss restoring your name."

"My name."

"The name on the deed was removed in your second year, Camilla. It was a legal necessity."

My mother put down her fork.

"Richard," she said, almost silently.

"Diane."

She picked the fork up again.

Sheridan poured the wine, filling my glass and then my father's.

"To Chadwick," she said, and lifted hers. "Five years. And to my sister, home."

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