Chapter 9: Terms

That night the empty chair was not empty.

Beatrice had me sit in it, in a borrowed sweater, with the good china in front of me and a candle between us.

Teagan had gone home with a foil-wrapped plate and a promise to come back on Sunday.

It was just the three of us, the old woman at the head of the table, Bennett across, and me.

The housekeeper brought in a roast chicken and a dish of green beans, and then a small plate with something brown on it.

"I do not bake," said Beatrice. "But I was told you do. I asked the cook to make gingerbread, and she made it badly."

I picked up a piece and bit it.

It was dry and too sweet and it had no ginger.

"It's wonderful," I said.

"It is not."

"It's the best gingerbread I've ever had in this chair."

Her mouth twitched, and she lifted her glass of water.

"To New Year's Day," she said. "And a very late Christmas."

We drank.

Bennett watched me over the rim of his glass.

I put the cream envelopes beside my plate, and nobody mentioned them.

When the plates were cleared, Beatrice rose on her cane and said she was going to bed.

"I am eighty years old and I have had a very full weekend."

She stopped beside my chair and put a light hand on my shoulder.

"Whatever you decide about my grandsons, you decide it. I will not be a Hargrove who sits on a throne and gives orders."

"You gave a lot of orders last night."

"Only the good ones."

She went out, and the room felt bigger.

Bennett pushed back his chair.

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