“We have copies. The lender has the submission.”
For the first time, Tara’s polished expression broke into something naked and quick.
Fear.
Then it was gone.
“Sandra has been forgetting things,” she said.
Ruth did not answer immediately.
The furnace switched on. Warm air lifted the edge of the napkin beneath my son’s shoe.
“I forget why I open the refrigerator sometimes,” I said. “I forgot your cousin’s birthday. I did not forget borrowing nearly a quarter of a million dollars.”
“You signed so many things after Walt died.”
“Not this.”
“You were overwhelmed.”
“I was grieving.”
Cole bent to pick up his napkin, then straightened without it.
“Can we do this somewhere private?”
I looked toward the dining room. Twenty-one people had been able to watch me lose my place without needing privacy.
But I did not want an audience for whatever came next.
“Yes,” I said. “Everyone else needs to go home.”
Tara’s mother pushed back her chair.
“Surely we can finish eating.”
Her husband stared at her.
“Get your coat, Elaine.”
Chairs shifted. People avoided my eyes as they retrieved bags and scarves. One of Cole’s coworkers stopped beside me, his car keys clenched in his fist.
“I should have said something,” he murmured.
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded once and left.
Tara’s youngest sister, Beth, stayed long enough to carry the gravy boat into the kitchen. When she returned, she touched my wrist.
“I’m sorry I laughed.”
I could only nod.
Tara’s parents remained by the dining room doorway.
Ruth asked whether I wanted them there.
