“You’ll really make me pay all of it?”
Sylvia shut her eyes. She could picture Priscilla standing in her kitchen, waiting for the old answer: It’s all right. Don’t worry. We’ll handle it.
“Yes,” Sylvia said. “I will.”
Another pause. “I’m sorry.”
Sylvia let the words settle. “I hear you.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s what I can give you today.”
When she returned home, Dean was waiting on the porch. He carried no flowers and no excuse. He took the suitcase inside and asked if she wanted tea.
The house looked unchanged. The small table remained beneath the window. The mantel was bare except for the wooden clock Sylvia’s late husband had repaired twice. But the quiet had changed. It no longer felt like a room waiting to be filled for somebody else.
Dean told her he and Priscilla were staying apart while they worked through the debts and decided what came next. He had contacted the bank about closing the card and had moved the legitimate emergency expenses to an account in his own name. He would repay Sylvia for the Christmas cancellation fee and any charge the bank determined he had authorized.
“And the rest?” Sylvia asked.
“Priscilla has agreed to a repayment plan. The counselor is helping her make a budget. I’m not signing anything for her, and she can’t access your accounts.”
Sylvia nodded. “Good.”
“I don’t know if we’ll stay married.”
“You don’t have to decide today.”
“I thought I could fix everything by keeping people calm.” He looked down at his hands. “I kept you calm by not telling you. I kept her calm by not asking questions. I didn’t fix anything.”
“No,” Sylvia said. “You didn’t.”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. “I know. Now you have to be different.”
The next morning, Priscilla came to collect her things. Dean stayed in the doorway while she carried two bags to the car. Sylvia watched from the kitchen, not hiding and not inviting her in.
At the door, Priscilla stopped. “I thought your house was the one place I could come without being judged.”
Sylvia looked at her. “It can be a place where you’re welcome. It can’t be a place where you take what you want.”
Priscilla’s mouth tightened. Then she nodded, once, and went outside.
After the car left, Dean stood in the hall. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing for a minute.”
They stood there while the clock ticked on the mantel. The house did not ask Sylvia to explain the silence. It simply held it.
CHAPTER 5 – A Table of Her Own
Christmas came without rented tables, imported wine, or a catered menu.
Sylvia spent the morning in soft clothes, drinking coffee while snow gathered along the window ledges. She cooked only what she wanted: a small roast, potatoes, and a pie she had bought from the bakery. No one arrived early to rearrange her furniture. No one handed her a list of extra errands.
Dean came in the afternoon with a loaf of bread and a paper bag of oranges. He had called first.
