Chapter 5: A Family Dinner

Hugh's house had a ramp built along the front steps, in white stone, with a brass rail.

I walked up it, and I knew the man who lived there could have climbed the steps beside it.

Simon's man waited at the curb in a grey sedan.

He did not get out, and he did not look at me.

It was still the most comfortable thing I had felt all week.

Cecily opened the door herself, in an apron over a cream silk dress.

"You came," she said, and held me so tightly my ribs ached.

"I said I would."

"I made the tart." She pulled back and wiped her eyes. "I wanted tonight to be perfect."

The dining room was warm and smelled of butter.

Hugh sat at the head of the table in his chair, a napkin spread over his knees.

Leland sat on his right, and my father on his left.

Nobody had put a place card for me.

"There's room by Cecily," Hugh said, with a smile that did not move his eyes. "Don't be shy, Imogen. We all say things we regret."

I took the chair across from him.

Cecily set a plate in front of me.

It was the lemon tart, cut in a perfect triangle, with a sprig of mint.

"Eat," she said softly.

I put my fork down on the edge of the plate.

"I'm not hungry."

"You always say that when you're upset," Hugh said. "You always did, even at nineteen."

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