Chapter 7: Sunday Dinner

"Why?" I said.

"Because I'm your mother and I'm asking."

"You're not asking. You never ask."

"Six o'clock, Elsie."

She hung up.

Fletcher was watching me with the dish towel over his shoulder.

"Your mom?"

"The one who got the pilot pulled."

"You going?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I want to see her face when I say no to it."

On Sunday he drove me downtown and parked in the visitor level of the garage under my parents' building.

"I'll be right here," he said. "Text me if you need a getaway driver."

"It's dinner, not a bank job."

"With your family, I'm not sure there's a difference."

The elevator still opened straight into the penthouse.

Seven years, and the entryway smelled the same. Lemon polish and lilies.

My brass key was gone from my keyring. Somebody had probably thrown it away.

Mom was at the end of the dining table in pearls.

Dad sat to her right, grayer, heavier, reading glasses pushed up on his head.

Gracie and Colby sat side by side.

Drew was at the far end, alone. Twenty-seven. Glasses. Dad's square jaw. He looked at me once and then at his plate.

"You look tired," Mom said.

"I run a company."

"Sit."

I sat.

A housekeeper I'd never seen before put a plate of salmon in front of me.

Nobody talked about the salmon.

"Gracie, show your sister the doll room," Mom said. "She hasn't seen what we did with it."

"I've seen enough of her dolls," I said.

Colby laughed into his wine.

Gracie gave him a little slap on the arm, smiling.

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