1
Supper with Friends ROBYN
The match flares in the half-dark of our kitchen. As I lean toward the candles, light slips along the silver lines of the bowl that forms the centerpiece of the table. I stand back, making one final check of the linen, the glasses, the place settings, the eight mismatched chairs. Cat walks in.
“Okay,” she says, “the twins are asleep. Sophie’s in bed and reading. I’ve told her it’s fine to come down so long as she takes herself back up. What’s still to do?”
“We’re pretty much there. Make yourself a drink.”
“I’m saving myself for when Jamie gets here.”
“Don’t.”
“Last time he delivered us
forty-five minutes on the engineering works between here and the coast. Remember?
Forty-five sodding minutes. If he does that again, I’m feigning death.” My wife rummages in a drawer and pulls out a bottle opener. “I honestly don’t know what Willa sees in him.”
“He wants kids.”
“She’s well aware there’re other ways. Anyway, she’s
got to want more than that—”
“It’s all she wants.”
“Basic compatibility for a start. I mean, why Jamie?”
“She’s thirty-eight. You know it’s a tricky subject.”
“Everything’s tricky—”
“
Cat—”
“This was meant to be a
family get-together.
Sibs. It’s almost impossible to get Michael
and Nate in London at the exact same time.”
“Willa’s practically family.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She’s been through so much.”
“Sure.” Cat gives me daggers, then just as quickly lets it go. “I know.”
I look at the table, running a hand through my hair. “D’you reckon everyone will get on?”
Cat pulls me to her. “Course they will. It’s nearly Christmas, plus we’ve been cooking
all afternoon. They’re duty-bound. By the way,” she says, turning me so my silver top glitters in the candlelight, “you look truly lovely.”
“Thought I might dress up a little.”
“You always dress up for Willa,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “your first love.”
“I should never have told you that.”
“Doorbell,” she says. “I’ll go.”
I hear voices in the hallway: Cat first, then Jamie’s deep-toned reply. I lean against the table, face turned toward the kitchen door.
And then there she is, Willa.
Copyright © 2024 by Sarah Easter Collins. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
