Chapter 4: Sunday Dinner

Beau's mother has Tuesday supper at her house every week, and nobody in the family has ever skipped one.

I went because skipping would have told them something.

Marilyn set the table with the good plates and the cloth napkins, and she put me next to her instead of next to Beau.

"Sit by me, Marlo," she said. "I want to hear how you're holding up."

Her silver hair was set in waves, and she wore the same church pearls she wore to funerals and christenings.

Beau sat across from me with Tilly on his right.

My cousin had come straight from a fitting for the album cover, and she kept telling a story about the stylist's pins.

Everyone laughed in the right places, including me.

Marilyn passed the pot roast and patted my wrist.

"I think what you did Saturday was gracious," she said. "A lot of wives would have made a scene."

"Thank you, Marilyn."

"A wife's job is to be the ground under her husband's feet. Beau has always said you understand that."

"He says a lot of things," I said.

Beau grinned at his plate and didn't look up.

Marilyn took a folded paper from the pocket of her cardigan and slid it beside my fork.

It was the same waiver, with a fresh crease down the middle.

"Tilly left her copy with me," Marilyn said. "I think you should sign it tonight, honey, while we're all together. Why wait?"

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