I nodded.
“Can Max come?”
“Of course.”
“Sophie too?”
Marco looked at the three-year-old.
“Sophie appears very busy with her rabbits.”
Sophie clutched them.
“They like kitchens.”
“Then they are invited.”
I set her down.
All three children followed Marco toward the kitchen.
Emily looked back once.
She was smiling.
The table became quiet.
A different kind of quiet.
Not hostile.
Exposed.
Amanda stabbed once at a piece of pasta, then stopped.
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Margaret’s hands rested perfectly on either side of her plate.
Gerald stared toward the kitchen doors.
Thomas had finally put his phone face down.
I sat.
For the first time that evening, I felt no need to leave.
Gerald spoke first.
“I remember.”
Margaret looked at him.
“What?”
“When Bella Luna almost closed.”
He swallowed.
“James was working late constantly.”
Marco had apparently opened a door in Gerald too.
“He brought takeout from here every Sunday for months,” Gerald said.
His voice roughened.
“Your mother complained that he smelled like garlic every time he came over.”
Margaret’s face shifted.
“I remember that.”
Gerald nodded.
“He said the owner reminded him of Grandpa Harrison.”
I looked at him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know the whole thing.”
He stared toward the kitchen.
“I knew he was helping with a difficult account. I didn’t know it became personal.”
It was the most Gerald had spoken about James in months.
Maybe longer.
After James passed, Gerald did what many fathers of his generation seemed trained to do with grief.
