Chapter 6: Dinner at the Mahoneys

The summons came on a cream card, delivered to the penthouse door by a man in a black suit.

Dinner, Sunday, seven. Bring the Flanagan girl.

"He's holding the note," I said. "I want to ask him to his face."

"He can't hold a conversation," Malachi said.

"Then he can hold my question."

Malachi looked at the card for a long time. "Stay near me."

"I'm not your date."

"Stay near me anyway."

The Mahoney house stood on a dead-end road above the bay, behind a gate and a long wet lawn.

I wore the only dress I owned that fit, a dark green one that stopped at my knee.

Malachi came out of his room in a black suit, and I looked out the car window until my face cooled.

The dining room was lit by a chandelier. The table could seat twenty and was set for four.

Frank Mahoney sat at the head of it in a wheelchair, with a blanket on his lap.

He was a big man gone heavy and gray. His right hand lay curled in his lap, and his mouth hung a little on that side.

A nurse in white stood behind him, and Dane sat at his right.

Dane was smiling at me. The tea stain was gone from his jacket.

"Kate," he said. "Wear green more often."

"Dane," I said. "Wear less cologne."

Malachi pulled out my chair and sat beside me, across from his brother.

The soup came. Nobody touched it.

"Dad can't talk yet," Dane said. "But he can hear. Can't you, Dad?"

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