Chapter 7: Sunday at Marilyn's

Marilyn's backyard in Republic has a flagpole, a vinyl fence, and a long row of folding tables under a blue tarp.

On Sunday afternoon it also had twenty-two Carroways in lawn chairs, holding paper plates.

Dani parked her Subaru at the curb and turned off the engine.

"Last chance," she said. "We could go get tacos."

"I'm bringing the ring."

"I know. I just wanted to say tacos."

She took a plastic tub of grocery-store potato salad out of the back seat, and we went in through the side gate together.

The conversation stopped in a ripple, one chair at a time.

Todd's brother looked at his plate.

An aunt I had known for ten years looked at me, then at the sky.

A small boy in a Cardinals shirt said, loudly, "Is that the lady?" and was hushed.

Dani walked straight to the food table, set her potato salad beside Marilyn's, and peeled back the lid.

"I brought a side," she announced.

Todd stood at the grill in a blue apron that said KISS THE COOK.

Dani saw it before I did, and I heard her breathe in through her nose.

"Don't," I said, very low.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

Todd put down his tongs.

He opened his arms and came across the grass with his face crumpling.

He came toward someone who'd been missing for days.

"Beth," he said. "Thank God."

He reached for a hug, and I stepped back.

"Hi, Todd," I said.

I said it the way you'd say it to someone you'd met at a funeral.