Chapter 12: Sunday Lunch

Joan Ames had set her dining table with a white cloth, her good china, a roast on a platter and seven chairs.

I sat in the one she pointed to, between my mother and my father, with a text from Eli face down in my lap that said: Eat something.

Dean sat at the head of the table in a pressed shirt and a tie.

Dorothy sat across from me, with her hands folded and her wrists bare.

Ricky was out in the backyard with the dog, and I could hear him through the open window.

"Before we eat," Dean said, "I'd like to say something."

"Before you do," I said. "Joan, I have a question."

Joan lifted her chin.

"Did you call Larkin Cabinetry about my kitchen order?"

The fork in my father's hand stopped.

"I called a supplier," Joan said evenly. "To make certain my son's household wasn't embarrassed in front of the neighbors."

"Twice."

"As often as it took."

"You told him I wasn't to see the delivery sheet."

"I told him you were under a great deal of stress." She smoothed the tablecloth with one palm. "Which you were. Which you are."

"You phoned a stranger," my father said, "to keep my daughter from reading her own order."

"I protect my family," Joan said. "You should try it."

Dean cleared his throat.

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