Chapter 8: Sunday Dinner

Lorna Renner set a table for twelve when eight were coming.

There were pot roast and green beans, two kinds of rolls, and the lemon cake she only made for birthdays.

I stood in her kitchen doorway at five on Sunday and she took my face in both her hands.

"You're thin," she said.

"I'm fine."

"You're thin, and you've been crying, and you're going to eat my pot roast." She kissed my cheek.

I had loved this woman for twenty years.

She had put me on my first horse when I was sixteen and Gran was already sick.

She had never once let me feel like a charity case at her table.

I had not been able to call her all week, because I didn't know what I'd say.

"Does she know?" I asked Jesse, low, in the hallway.

"She knows there was a scene at the barbecue." He rubbed his jaw. "Dad told her it was a misunderstanding. Her heart. I don't want her upset."

"I'm not here to upset her."

"I know."

"I'm here to ask your father a question."

He shut his eyes.

"Please wait until I talk to her first."

"When?"

"After dinner."

I didn't answer him.

We sat down, eight of us, with the foreman and his wife at the far end.

Ward carved the roast at the head of the table with a big, warm, practiced hand.

He told a long story about a bull and a county commissioner.

The foreman laughed in the right places.

Lorna looked happy, for the first time in a week, and I watched Jesse watch her.

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