“Which is more than I can say for every person at this table.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. Light, uncertain. The kind people let out when they aren’t sure if they’re being invited into a joke or set up for a scene.
Rebecca turned her head toward me.
I was sitting three seats down, paper plate in one hand, plastic fork in the other, feeling suddenly as though every light in that yard had been angled at my face.
“There’s Mark,” she said sweetly. “My husband. The nicest man in three counties. So nice, in fact, that if someone broke into our house, he’d probably apologize for not having the silver polished.”
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