Chapter 6 - Lunch At The Far End Of The Table
Grandma pointed to the chairs and everyone sat without a word. The sound of wood dragging on wood filled the dining room. I ended up at the far end of the long table, closest to the hutch, with two empty seats between me and my cousin on my left. My plate was already set. Someone had carried the food in while we were standing around my bag.
I folded my hands in my lap and tried not to look at the pink edge of my tablet where it sat face-down on the sideboard behind Grandma's chair. She had put a linen napkin over it. That was worse somehow. Like it was something to be buried.
The chicken smelled like lemon and rosemary. Steam rose off the green beans. Nobody reached first.
"Well," my aunt in white said, standing for a second at the head of the table. She smoothed her one-shoulder dress and touched her gold necklace. "We're together. That's what matters."
She said it like she was hosting. She wasn't. Grandma was. But no one corrected her.
She picked up the water pitcher and went around the table herself, pouring for my uncles. Her smile was back, the tight one from the doorway. "Grandma always says this house runs on family trust," she said. "So let's have a nice lunch."
My hands tightened. Family trust. She said it and looked right down the table at me.
Grandma didn't look up. "Sit down and eat," she said.
The blonde woman sat. Everyone started passing bowls because now there was permission.
I took a small piece of chicken when the platter got to me. My fingers shook against the serving fork and it clinked on the china. My cousin didn't look at me. He stared at his plate and chewed. Across from him, one of my uncles cleared his throat every few seconds like he wanted to speak and then thought better of it.
The chandelier hummed faintly above us. Daylight came through the sheer curtains and made bright squares on the tablecloth. I could hear forks and knives and breathing. No one talked.
I tried to eat. The chicken stuck in my throat. I set my fork down and took a sip of water to make it look normal.
At the other end, she wasn't eating. I watched her without turning my head straight at her. She cut her chicken into smaller and smaller pieces and moved them around with her fork but never lifted a bite. She poured more water for the man next to her. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin even though she hadn't taken a bite. And the whole time her eyes kept going to Grandma.
Not to me. To Grandma.
Every time Grandma shifted in her chair, every time Grandma glanced toward the sideboard where the tablet was under the napkin, her shoulders went still. She was waiting for something. I realized she wanted Grandma to pick up her wine glass. There were two glasses at each place. Water and white wine. Grandma's wine glass sat full and untouched by her right hand.
"You're quiet today, Mom," one uncle finally said to Grandma, forcing a laugh. "Thought you were gonna make that announcement before dessert."
My chest went tight. The toast. The inheritance talk everyone had been whispering about that morning.
Grandma put her fork down slowly. She looked down the length of the table, past all the faces, to me at the far end. Then she looked at the blonde woman.
"Not today," Grandma said. Her voice was flat. "We'll eat. After that, we'll clear. The announcement can wait until we're clear on a few things."
Silence dropped back over the table. The blonde woman's hand stopped moving her food around. She smiled again, quick.
"Of course," she said. "No rush."
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But her jaw was tight. She finally took a sip of water and her eyes cut to the sideboard once more.
I looked down at my plate. My food had gone cold. Nobody lifted a wine glass for a toast. We just sat there in the daylight with the chandelier on, chewing quietly, and I understood that lunch wasn't lunch. It was everyone waiting to see who Grandma believed.
