Chapter 4: Her Chair

Lorna's dining room seated twelve, and on Sunday it held seven.

Two of the firm's directors sat at the far end with their wine, talking about interest rates.

I came in at six exactly, in the black dress I'd worn to the funeral.

The place card at Colin's right hand, the one that had been mine every Sunday for three years, said Iris.

Mine had been moved to the foot of the table, beside a director's wife.

I stood behind it and looked at the cards.

"Iris is in grief," Lorna said, unfolding her napkin. "She should sit by family."

"I'm family," I said.

"You're fine where you are, dear."

Iris came in last, pale in a borrowed black cardigan, and Colin pulled her chair out with both hands.

"Sit here, Iris. Nice and close. You need to eat something."

"Colin, I couldn't."

"Two spoonfuls. For me."

He ladled the soup himself, and he set the bowl in front of her with both hands.

I watched my husband feed his brother's widow in front of two directors and his mother, and nobody at the table found it strange.

I sat down at the foot of the table.

The director's wife leaned toward me and murmured, "It's a hard season for the family."

"It is."

Down the table, Colin laughed at something Iris said, a real laugh, loose and warm.

I hadn't heard that laugh in months.

I picked up my spoon and put it down again.

"Gen," Colin called, over the clink of silver. "Pass the bread, would you?"

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