Chapter 10: Sunday Dinner

The house on Gaston Street had a front door painted the color of old pennies, and I had stood on its steps exactly once before.

That was the Christmas after the wedding, delivering a casserole dish for a staff party, and a housekeeper had let me in through the kitchen.

On Sunday evening Rosamund opened the front door herself.

"Ione," she said warmly. "How lovely. Come in, come in. You look well."

She kissed the air beside my cheek.

She smelled like lilies and cold cream.

Lachlan walked in behind me with his jaw set.

She touched his sleeve and said, "Darling," and the whole thing was so smooth I almost believed it.

Friday had come and gone since the ultrasound.

He had done what I asked, in the only order he could manage.

He told the board on Thursday and told Verity's father at his desk.

On Friday night he stood in his mother's front hall and said it to her face with the housekeeper listening.

He had texted me afterward: "Done. All three."

I had written back: "Thank you."

I had not written anything else.

It was not forgiveness.

It was a receipt.

The dining room was lit with real candles.

The table seated twelve and was set for three, with Lachlan's father's portrait looking down from the wall above the sideboard.

Rosamund seated me at her right.

She poured my water, and took pains to pour it from the pitcher with lemon slices, as if she had been told what nurses drink.

"I owe you an apology," she said, sitting down.

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