Seven forty on a Thursday, and the dining room at Marrowfield is laid for three: the long table, the candles going soft, silver untouched at every place.
You came up from Rhinebeck in Julius's truck, an hour of valley road with his hand on the gear stick and the two of you not saying the thing you have not said for three weeks. He told you he would do the talking tonight. He has not done any talking.
Augustine Larchmont has been at the window since you came in, overcoat still on, a folder squared to the edge of the sideboard. He looks at the clock, then at Julius, then at you.
"Griffith isn't coming,"
Julius says, to the room and not to him.
"I told Uncle Griffith not to come."
"Then it is three of us,"
Augustine says, and draws your chair out from the table with one hand. He does it the way another man would turn a page.
"Sit. You have had a long drive."
Julius gets there first.
"She sits where she wants."
"She will."
Augustine waits until you have picked a chair, and only then goes to the sideboard. He does not open the folder. He sets it down beside your plate, takes the pen out of his breast pocket, and lays it across the cover, parallel to the edge, the way another man would lay down a knife.
"This is the trust's offer,"
he says.
"The cottage on the north field, in your name only. A line in the books that answers to you and to nobody else. And the loan your mother has been carrying since the spring, cleared, with nothing asked back. I did not write any of it expecting a signature at this table."
He steps back half a pace.
"But I want you to hear it in front of him. Read it, or I will read it to you."
Julius is looking at the pen, and he has not touched his fork.
The clock in the hall strikes eight.