“What?! He does! Every Sunday, boom, 7:30 p.m., out the door like the pumpkin’s about to blow.” She examined the crooked napkin. “I’m only half joking, by the way.”
I almost defended him.
Then I stopped.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
For six months, Richard had been joining us for Sunday dinner, and not once had he stayed past 7:30 p.m.
He was always polite when he left.
And he always had an explanation.
The problem was, the explanations changed every week.
“Set out the water glasses,” I said.
“Deflection…”
I gave her a look.
Mom came downstairs, and Chloe let out a low whistle.
Mom swatted at her, blushing like a teenager, then asked whether her lipstick was too much.
It wasn’t.
She looked nearly ten years younger than she had at Christmas.
Richard arrived exactly at 5 p.m., carrying daisies and a bottle of sparkling grape juice for Chloe.
He shook my hand, kissed Mom’s cheek, and asked Chloe about her history project.
On paper, he was wonderful.
