Chapter 12: Clap on Friday

Celia set the two paper cups down on the counter and shut the kitchen door behind her.

The click of the latch was the only sound.

"Please sit," she said. "Both of you. This will take a minute."

"I'll stand," I said.

"Then stand." She took off her gloves one finger at a time.

"Let's say the true things out loud, so nobody has to pretend."

The soft voice was gone.

What was left was lower, and flatter, and much older than her face.

"My son's father is Sawyer," she said. "My husband knows. You know."

"Sawyer has told his own men, in a hallway, with the fire chief listening."

"He didn't tell them everything," I said.

"No. He didn't tell them about the trust." She looked at Terrence. "You do know about the trust."

"You told me last night."

"My father built that tower for his grandson. The deed is in my name until Sammy turns eighteen."

"Then it passes to the heir of my husband's line. Terrence is my husband. Sammy is his heir."

"He's not," I said.

"On paper, he is."

"And Terrence knows."

"Terrence has known three years and said nothing." Her eyes moved to him, almost fondly.

"Because he's decent. A decent man doesn't want to see a six-year-old lose his home."

Terrence had not moved from beside the sink.

"Say what you came to say, Celia."

"Very well." She folded her gloves. "On Friday night Sawyer receives a medal. The press will be there. I paid for the room."

"I know."

"I want you to sit in the front row, Hannah, and clap."

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