Chapter 23: Sunday Table

On the first Sunday in April we ate at Agnes's table, and it was too small for the people at it.

Agnes had pushed the worktable against the wall in the back of the shop.

She had borrowed two chairs from the flower seller next door.

There were seven of us.

Agnes and Marguerite sat at one side, with Gabe and two of his men from the yard beside them.

A very shy shipwright's apprentice sat in a clean shirt at the far end.

I sat at the end nearest the stove, with a pot roast I had made twice because the first one had gone to the apprentice on a dare.

"The gravy," Marguerite said, "is a sin."

"It's not a sin," said Agnes. "It's four hours."

"I mean it as a compliment."

"I'll take it as one when you say thank you."

"Thank you," said Marguerite, and put another spoonful on her plate.

The two women had been needling each other for three months, and I had never seen either of them so happy.

They had agreed on exactly one thing, which was that I was too thin.

They had agreed on a second thing the week before, which was that Gabe was too quiet.

"Mr. Hollander," said Marguerite. "Tell the table something."

"I don't have anything."

"You've been in this family for three months and you've said fourteen words."

"Fifteen," said one of his men. "He said please pass the salt."

"It was good gravy," said Gabe.

The apprentice choked on his water.

Marguerite put her fork down and slid something across the cloth.

"This came on Friday," she said. "I thought you should read it before I did anything unseemly."

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