Chapter 4: Sunday Dinner

"You don't have to go," Thatcher said.

He'd read the text over my shoulder.

"She wants to see if you'll flinch," he said.

"Then I'll wear something I can't flinch in."

The Ashwood house on Gaston Street had a wrought-iron gate and a porch that ran the whole side of the house.

I'd eaten there maybe forty times as Crosby's fiancée.

I wore a green dress and my good sandals. Thatcher wore a pressed blue shirt and no tie.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps.

"Last chance," he said.

I took his hand.

"Come on, husband."

Lorene opened the door herself.

Cream suit on a Sunday. Pearls. A smile that didn't move her cheeks.

"Neely. Don't you look festive." Her eyes went to the plastic ring. "And Thatcher. You remembered the address."

"Lorene," he said.

"Come in. We've held dinner."

The dining room still had the long mahogany table and the portrait of their father over the sideboard.

Crosby was already sitting. He didn't stand up.

Ivey was in a cream knit set with her phone on a little gold tripod beside her plate.

"Oh, you came," she said. "I told Mama you wouldn't."

Lorene sat at the head. She put Thatcher at the far end, by the kitchen door.

She put me across from Crosby.

"Crosby, sweetheart, will you say grace?"

Ivey tapped her phone. The red dot came on.

"Sunday dinner with the family," she whispered to it. "Even the complicated ones."

Crosby bowed his head and thanked the Lord for family, loyalty and people who keep their promises.

He looked at me when he said promises.

"Amen," said Lorene.

"Amen," said Ivey to her phone.

The food came out. Shrimp and grits, green beans, cornbread in an iron skillet.

"So, Neely. How's business?"

"Slower since Tuesday."

"I'm sure it's a hard time for small outfits," she said. "Storm season. Insurance. Men getting hurt on roofs."

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