A Seat at His Table

Shelby sat down as though she hadn't heard.

"You're still angry."

Clara looked at the clock above the doorway.

"I'm busy."

"That's not an answer."

"It was the one I gave you."

Shelby slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet onto the new sofa.

Clara felt a small, unreasonable flare of anger at the soles of her socks against the leather.

After everything, that was what she noticed.

"We grew up together," Shelby said. "You're my sister."

"When you want something."

Her cousin's face crumpled.

Clara looked away before the tears could begin.

She had seen Shelby's tears when she was frightened. She had seen them when she was hurt. Now she knew there were others, easy and ready, that appeared precisely when a conversation became inconvenient.

Knowing didn't make them pleasant to watch.

"I shouldn't have said those things at your office," Shelby said.

Clara kept folding the packing paper.

"No. You shouldn't."

"I was upset. You got him. You didn't have to rub it in."

Clara turned.

"How did I rub it in?"

"Living here. Everything."

"You came here."

Shelby stood and picked up the camel-colored coat from the armchair.

"Does this fit me?"

"It's mine."

"I'm only trying it."

She put it on, turned toward the mirror, and reached for Clara's handbag.

Clara watched in disbelief as her cousin found the compact, opened it, and touched powder to her face.

"I don't know why you won't let things go," Shelby said.

She put the compact into the coat pocket.

"Leave that."

"I'll bring it back."

"Now."

Shelby set it down with exaggerated care.

Then she found the cash Clara had tucked into the inner pocket.

"Could I borrow this?"

"No."

"I get paid tomorrow."

"Then wait until tomorrow."

Shelby folded the bills into her palm anyway.

"Mom needs it."

Clara looked at the four hundred dollars, the coat, the familiar lipstick now lying beside her cousin's bag.

She took out her phone.

Shelby's eyes went to the screen.

"Who are you calling?"

"Vince."

For the first time since entering the house, Shelby hurried.

"Fine. I'll go. I know when I'm not wanted."

She put the coat around herself more tightly and stepped into Clara's new shoes by the door.

They were too small. She crushed the heels down.

"Shelby."

"I'll bring them back."

The door shut.

Clara stood in her socks, staring at it.

A minute later Vince came in.

He looked at her feet, then at her face.

"What happened?"

She didn't know where to begin.

***

Vince had come to take her to the company's holiday dinner.

Damian hadn't invited her himself.

Clara considered refusing on that basis alone.

Then Vince opened the trunk and produced the large black winter coat she had worn the previous year, together with the cheap red scarf from her office event.

Damian had returned the scarf for the staff photograph, then somehow acquired it again afterward.

It had lived among his things ever since.

Clara took it from Vince.

"He's kept this?"

"Looks that way."

Her shoes were another problem. Vince called the hotel, waited while somebody found a clean pair of slippers in her room, then drove over to collect them.

By the time they arrived at the Nightingale, she felt too ridiculous to remain properly angry.

The main hall was crowded with staff and their families.

Children ran between tables. A singer on the small stage was losing a cheerful battle with the noise. Red and gold envelopes stood beside a stack of boxed gifts.

Damian sat at the front with the managers.

He saw her come in.

His eyes dropped to his coat, then to the red scarf.

Something softened in his face.

He hid it by turning back to the man beside him.

Clara sat with Owen and several hotel employees.

"Nice to see you," one woman said warmly.

Nobody asked why she was there. She was grateful for that.

They ate, compared plans for the holiday, laughed at the raffle prizes. Damian gave bonuses without a speech about how grateful everyone should be.

Vince got an envelope thick enough to require both hands.

Owen received one almost as large and immediately put it inside his jacket, as though leaving money where people could see it was untidy.

"What did you do?" Clara asked Vince.

"Collected something that was owed."

"That sounds ominous."

"It was overdue."

He grinned and put away the envelope.

A little boy from the next table wandered over carrying a raffle ticket.

"Can you read this?" he asked Clara.

She read the number.

"Is it a winner?"

"Not yet. We have to wait."

He leaned against her chair with the solemn patience of a person who had never been made to wait longer than five minutes. His mother came to apologize.

"He's fine," Clara said.

The woman smiled, then recognized the coat around Clara's shoulders and looked away before asking a question.

Onstage, another number was called. The boy examined his ticket upside down.

"Not this time," Clara told him.

"Mr. Wolfe said everybody gets something."

"Then I imagine you will."

He considered her judgment and stayed where he was. A few minutes later, a staff member arrived with a box containing a toy truck, sent down from the stage.

The boy accepted it as proof that adults occasionally kept their promises.

His mother thanked the server, then looked toward Damian.

"When my husband was in the hospital, he kept paying his wages," she told Clara quietly. "He won't let anyone make a fuss about it. But you remember."

Clara nodded.

Across the room, Damian caught her looking and raised his glass a fraction. She almost raised hers back. Then somebody spoke to him, and the moment passed.

Damian moved from table to table, shaking hands, asking after sick parents and new babies. He knew more names than Clara would have thought possible.

He didn't come to hers.

She stopped watching.

***

After dinner, Owen went upstairs to a private card room.

Clara followed because she had nowhere else to go and didn't particularly want to admit she was tired. The evening wasn't over yet.

Damian sat at one of the tables with three men, his sleeves rolled back, his tie gone. He glanced toward her, then at Vince.

"She eat?"

"Yes."

"Good."

That was all.

Clara found a sofa in the corner and sat on the coat somebody had left across it.

His coat.

She recognized the smell and refused to move.

Her phone held a message from the conservation team. Professor Whitmore had added her to a group reviewing survey notes from an old courthouse. She opened the files and tried to follow the discussion.

A server stopped beside her.

"You'll need to get up."

Clara looked up.

The young woman wore a fitted black dress and carried a tray with one hand, the other already reaching for the coat.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're sitting on Mr. Wolfe's jacket."

"I know."

The woman paused.

"Then please move."

Clara shifted, trying to free the coat without standing. Her slipper caught beneath the table.

The server pulled.

The thin paper sole tore, and Clara's bare heel touched the cold floor.

"Wait," she said. "Stop pulling."

Across the room, Damian turned.

"Out."

The server straightened, pleased to be supported.

"You heard him."

Clara looked at her husband.

He looked back, his expression saying he had not intended to spend the evening dealing with this.

"You go out," Clara told him.

The room went quiet.

One of the men at the table made a small, startled sound and immediately covered it with a cough.

Damian put down his cards.

His gaze went to her torn slipper, then to the pale foot tucked beneath the edge of his coat.

"Owen," he said.

Owen was already crossing the room.