Chapter 22: Sunday Dinner

The judge gave Chantal three years on the second Tuesday of December.

It was the same sentence Caleb had served, to the day.

Desmond got eleven, with no chance of release for seven, and his father did not come to court.

On Sunday, Carolyn sat at the head of a long kitchen table in the little house Caleb had bought her on a quiet street.

She wore a blue cardigan, and she had eaten two helpings of pot roast.

Nina sat across from her in a sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and she had not been allowed to stand since she arrived.

"More potatoes," Carolyn said.

"I'm full, Mrs. Merrick."

"Nobody is full on my potatoes. Caleb, give her more."

He put a spoonful on Nina's plate, and she gave him a look that promised revenge.

"How long have you run that company?" Carolyn asked.

"Five years."

"And you take the coffee yourself."

"I take a lot of coffee."

"My son says you cried when you met him."

"I did not," Nina said. "I teared up. It was dust."

Carolyn laughed, a dry, delighted sound, and she pushed back from the table.

"I'm going to lie down. Caleb will wash up, because he is in this house now and he washes up."

She stopped beside Nina's chair and put a hand on her shoulder.

"You looked at my son in that ballroom like a woman who'd walk through a wall for him."

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