Chapter 6: Sunday Dinner

Trevor's mother opened the door before we knocked.

Joan Ames was sixty-two, with a silver bob and reading glasses on a chain.

She had run a middle school for twenty years.

She hugged me hard.

"There's my girl."

Then she looked past my shoulder at Cillian.

She took him in from his boots to his haircut.

"You're the tulip man," she said.

"I am."

"I'm allergic to tulips."

"So I've heard," Cillian said. "My mother is too. I'm bad at this."

Joan laughed, a short bark, and stepped aside.

"Come in. Trevor's already sulking in the dining room."

He was sitting at the head of the table with his phone face down.

He stood when we came in and kissed his mother's cheek.

The roast was already on the table, with potatoes and green beans.

Joan put Cillian next to me with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Cillian what?" she asked, sitting.

"Eliza's got me on a short leash with the last name, ma'am."

"Has she."

"She says ask me in a month."

"I like a man with terms," Joan said, and passed him the potatoes.

Trevor cut his roast into very small pieces.

For fifteen minutes he talked about the station, and the new graphics package, and a hailstorm he had predicted three days early.

Joan listened with her chin on her hand.

"Trevor," she said, when he paused for breath. "Why did you ask for your grandmother's ring on Thursday?"

His fork stopped.

I felt Cillian go still beside me.

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