Chapter 8 - Sunday Lunch
At twelve thirty, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door. Walter stood on the step in a blue button-down and a nervous smile, holding a white bakery box.
"I wasn't sure what a person's supposed to bring to something like this."
"Key lime pie?"
He nodded. "Felt safer than trying to explain myself right away."
"We're too old to lie about wanting dessert, remember?"
Behind me, I heard Claire whisper, "Okay. I already like him."
He came inside. We ate. It was easy in a way I hadn't expected.
Partway through, Claire set down her glass and asked how the two of us had met.
Walter looked at me first. Then he answered.
"It's complicated," he said. "I knew Margaret's husband before I ever knew her."
Claire's smile slipped. She turned — not to Walter, but to me.
"Mom. Are you okay with this?"
For a second I thought about the Oregon coast. David's words in a diner. Walter's lie, and the lie underneath it. Susan's note in its plastic sleeve. The six weeks I had given myself.
Then I noticed how different her question was from the one she had asked me across the dinner table before my trip.
Back then, everyone wanted to know whether I should go, stay, forgive, start over.
Nobody was asking me that now.
Claire was asking what I wanted.
"Yes," I said. "Now I am."
This time, I knew exactly why he was standing at my door.
May you like
I stepped aside.
"Come in, Walter."
