Chapter 20: The Last Place in Line

On Friday night Constance set eight places at the long dining table and put a lamp at every one.

"It's a war council," she said. "Nobody is allowed to be polite."

My mother sat at her right, in the blue cardigan.

She had walked in on her own two feet, with a cane Constance had lent her.

Sam sat beside me with his knee against mine under the cloth.

The deacon sat at the foot with a bowl of soup, silent, and a napkin tucked into his collar.

Dawson sat across from me.

He had shaved, and there were shadows under his eyes.

He did not say anything until my mother passed him the bread.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hargrove," he said.

"Don't thank me," my mother said. "Eat."

Constance's lawyer unrolled a floor plan of the Biltmore ballroom and pinned it flat with two salt shakers.

"Three hundred and four guests," she said.

"Round tables, a stage at the north end and a screen on each side of it."

"Who runs the screens?" Sam asked.

"Margo's assistant did, until Monday. She sent Kerry her login last night."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because she says she should have quit in April.

"She has Dawson's photographs of the binder on her laptop, if we want them on the screens."

I looked at the plan.

Table 14 was beside the service door, exactly where the photograph had put it.

"They'll want to seat me there," I said.

"Let them," Sam said.

"Seven-thirty, her cousin shows me the Charleston picture, and I'm supposed to scream," I said.

"Don't scream," Constance said.

"I don't plan to. I plan to say thank you."

My mother snorted into her tea.

Dawson cleared his throat.

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