you finish these up, Patricia? My mother prefers her wine chilled, and I need to entertain.”
I caught the plates automatically.
That was the embarrassing part. My hands reacted before my mind did, trained by a year of Sunday dinners to accept whatever Rachel handed me.
Through the archway, I saw my son David beside the leather sofa, pouring white wine for Rachel’s mother. Brenda, silver-blond hair perfectly styled and wearing a cream cashmere sweater, laughed and settled comfortably into the cushions.
I had helped pay for that sofa six
