Chapter 11: Sunday Dinner

The Tornquist house stood on the lake shore north of the city, with a lit porch and a long dining room.

Margot's father sat at the head of the table.

He was past seventy, white-haired, heavy through the shoulders, and he shook my hand without getting up.

"Boyle," he said. "You moved my stairs."

"Your daughter's stairs, sir. I only drew them."

"Good answer. Sit."

Gus sat across from me with a napkin tucked into his collar and a look of great innocence.

Margot sat beside me, and I could feel her whole arm tense against mine.

She had said almost nothing in the car.

A housekeeper brought soup.

Her father asked me about Pittsburgh and the federal job and why I'd left it.

I answered, and for ten minutes it was nearly pleasant.

Then the front door opened.

I heard the heavy sound of it, and then a man's step in the hall, easy and unhurried.

I knew that step.

I had walked next to it for nine years.

"Sorry I'm late," Nigel said from the doorway.

He had on a dark suit and a pressed shirt.

On his left hand was a plain gold ring.

He walked around the table, past Gus, past me, and stopped behind Margot's chair.

He bent and kissed her on the cheek.

"Hi, wife," he said.

Nobody spoke.

Gus put down his fork very carefully.

I looked at the ring and I looked at the pale line on Margot's finger where hers wasn't.

I looked at her face, the one I had held in my hands that Friday night.

She was staring at the tablecloth.

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