Chapter 15: Sunday Dinner

Claire's POV

Sunday came, and I made a plate.

Pot roast, potatoes, green beans, foil crimped around the edge.

I carried it down the steps of my building at five o'clock, and the black car was at my curb.

Silvio sat in the back seat with the window down.

He had not called in six days, and he had not come up the stairs.

He had only parked, every day, where I could see him.

I walked up to the glass and stood there.

"Four Sundays," I said. "I never looked."

"No."

I looked at him now.

He had shadows under his eyes, and a nick on his jaw where he'd shaved badly, and he held perfectly still.

I handed him the plate through the window.

"It's from me," I said. "Not from her."

He took it in both hands.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To Sunday dinner. At my mother's."

"I'll wait outside."

"I know you will."

Tara opened the blue door.

She was in leggings and one of Shane's sweaters, her hair in a loose braid, one hand low on her stomach.

"You came," she said.

"Sit down. You're on bed rest," I said.

"I'm supposed to be on the couch."

"Then get on the couch."

The dining room table was set for four.

Grandpa's clock was gone from the hall, and a pale square showed on the wall where it had stood.

Shane stood by the window with his hands in his pockets.

He had lost weight in a week.

"Claire," he said.

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