We had reserved the corner table at Marchetti’s six weeks in advance. Forty-three years we had been going there for anniversaries — mine and Gerald’s — and the staff knew us by name. Rosa, who had been seating guests there since before our children were born, always put fresh flowers on our table without being asked.
This year the flowers were white roses. Gerald had called ahead to request them.
My son Warren arrived with his wife Patricia fifteen minutes late. Patricia walked ahead of him into the restaurant. She sat down and placed her purse on the table with a kind of deliberate weight, like something had been rehearsed about even that small gesture.
Gerald squeezed my hand under the table. He had noticed too.
We ordered. We made conversation that moved like water around rocks — careful, rerouted, never quite reaching the things no one was saying. Patricia spoke mostly about their home renovation. Warren nodded at intervals. He did not meet my eyes across the table for the first forty minutes.
Then Patricia reached into her purse.
She placed an envelope in front of me. Not Gerald. Me. Her eyes were steady in the way people practice being steady.
“Warren asked me to give you this tonight,” she said. “He thought it would be better coming from me.”
I looked at Warren. He was looking at his wine glass.
I picked up the envelope and opened it.
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