Chapter 8: The Lock on the Door

Spencer's glass hung in the air.

Lydia was crying and laughing at the same time, and Deborah had not lifted hers.

So I stood up.

My chair scraped on the old floorboards and everyone looked at me.

"Before anyone drinks to that," I said, "I have something for the table."

I took the folded copy out of my purse and laid it flat beside the potatoes.

"Willa," Spencer said. "Not tonight."

"This is a marriage certificate," I said. "It has my name on it, and it has his."

Lydia's smile held for a moment.

Then she picked up the paper.

She read the names.

She read the date, which was last December, and the courthouse, and the officiant's signature.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Eleven months ago I married Spencer," I said. "He took the original to file it. He told me he'd filed it. He never did."

"That's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

"Lydia," Spencer said. He put down his glass. "She's confused."

"Willa and I had a keepsake ceremony last December. A silly thing, I told you about it. It was never legal."

"You told me you shared an apartment."

"We did."

"You told me she was a roommate."

"She was."

"Lyd. Please. Look at me."

She didn't.

She was still looking at the paper.

"Spencer," she said, very quietly. "Where did you sleep last Sunday?"

His mouth opened.

"At my place."

"Whose bed?"

"What?"

"You told me you had a room with a lock on the door because of how she was. You said she wasn't well. Whose bed did you sleep in, Spencer?"

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