Chapter 7: Sunset

Muriel Arceneaux opened her own front door, looked me up and down, and said, "You're thinner than your video."

"Hello, Mrs. Arceneaux."

"Muriel. The Mrs. Arceneaux before me was my late mother-in-law, and she was a nightmare."

Her hair was dyed a bright copper, and her reading glasses hung on a chain against a pocketed cardigan.

She took my hand in both of hers and held it a moment longer than I expected.

"Come in," she said. "Sit down. The roast is dry because he was late."

"I was four minutes late," Jonas said.

"The roast takes it personally."

The dining room was small, with a round table and mismatched chairs.

I sat beside her, and Jonas sat across, where I could not help noticing him.

Muriel carved the meat and talked without stopping.

She told me her hair color was called Sunset and the salon had apologized for it twice.

She told me Jonas had refused to eat vegetables until the age of nine.

"I ate them," Jonas said.

"You hid them in a napkin and fed them to the dog."

I laughed before I could stop myself.

It was the first time I had laughed in two days, and it hurt a little.

Muriel's eyes slid across to her grandson, and something in her face relaxed.

"Now," she said, setting down her fork. "That boy at the hospital. The one in the nice suit with the soft voice."

"Brett."

"Does he always sound like he's apologizing to someone else?"

"Yes," I said.

"I thought so. Men like that are the worst kind. They never mean harm, and they do it all day."

She pushed back her chair.

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