Chapter 6: Brunch in Greenwich

My father called on Tuesday and asked me to come to brunch on Sunday.

"Your mother wants to clear the air," he said. "Family only. Please, Hazel."

I almost hung up on him.

Winifred, at the stove with her back to me, said, "Go. Take me. And turn on that recording thing in your phone."

On Sunday she drove us to Greenwich in the green sedan.

I had told Maxwell I'd be there. He'd said he would park at the end of the street and keep his phone on.

"Nothing else," I said.

"Nothing else," he said. He'd sounded almost sorry about it.

My parents' house is white with black shutters, and it sits on two acres of lawn they have never had the money to keep up.

There were thirty relatives in the dining room when we walked in.

Aunts. Cousins. A great-uncle who had once told me, at my own graduation, that finance was a hobby for girls who couldn't cook.

Mom stood at the head of the table in a green silk dress.

She saw me, and the smile on her face stayed exactly where it was.

"There she is," she said to the room. "Our Hazel. We're so glad she could join us."

Nobody said hello.

Brooke sat near the window beside Preston. She wore a high-collared blouse and no pearls.

Her left cheek was powdered a shade too pale.

Preston stood when I came in.

"Hazel," he said warmly. "Thank you for coming."

"I came for brunch."

"That's all anyone wants."

Winifred sat down at the empty chair beside her son and said, loudly, "You've lost weight, son."

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