Chapter 10: Sunday Dinner

Sunday dinner at the Whitman house had always meant roast chicken, a white tablecloth and nobody talking about anything real.

This time there were six places set, and my father had put Malcolm at the far end, beside Damian.

He had put me in the middle, with my sister across from me.

Chandler sat to my left and stared at his plate.

"I'm glad you could come," my father said. "Family should eat together."

"I'm only family when it's convenient," I said.

"Sit down, Gillian."

I sat.

Malcolm was calm and watchful, with his napkin on his knee.

He hadn't said a word since we came through the door, and I had the feeling he was memorizing the room.

My father waited until the housekeeper had poured the wine and gone.

Then he folded his hands.

"Gillian," he said, in his board voice. "I've been thinking about what's best for you."

"That would be a first."

Lydia smirked into her glass.

"You've had a difficult week," he said.

"You've said things that can't be unsaid, and so have I. I'd like to put it right."

He slid a thick cream envelope across the cloth.

"There is a house in Mill Valley with a garden, and it's yours, free and clear."

"There is also two million dollars in an account in your name."

"You'll have a job at the company, with any title you want."

I looked at the envelope.

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