Take her off the list.
I turned around. “What list?”
Helen closed her eyes like she’d been dreading exactly this question.
“The list of women,” she said, “that your mother thought your father should marry after she was gone.”
I sat back down. I had to.
“Mom made Dad a dating list,” I said. It came out flat. I needed to hear it out loud to believe I’d heard it at all.
“Seven names.”
“And he actually used it?”
“Eventually. Yes.”
Six women in eighteen months. Every one of them here, at this table, in that chair. My laughter died in my throat.
“Why here?” I asked. “Why does he insist on this restaurant every single time?”
“Because this is where your parents met.”
“I know that part. He’s told that story a hundred times.” Young Tom, young Maggie, a spilled glass of wine, an apology that turned into a three-hour conversation. It was practically family scripture.
