The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

I’d noticed, that he wasn’t invisible to me no matter how much I wished he were. “You were a really cute little boy,” I said, wondering if my words sounded as stupid to him as they did to me.

He tilted his head in question.

“The other frame on your desk—the one of you with your parents. It looks like you’re at the Atlanta airport. You were so adorable in your little socks and shorts.” My smile fell quickly at his pinched expression.

“That wasn’t me,” he said. He pulled himself away from the counter. “I’ll ask Anna to bring you tea.”

I started to tell him not to bother, but he’d already gone.

CHAPTER 17

Despite the sunshine gilding the house and landscape in a buttery sheen, the afternoon had turned cool, forcing us to eat in the banquet-sized dining room instead of outside. Not that there was anything wrong with eating fried chicken with mashed potatoes, black-eyed peas, and corn bread in a room where Queen Elizabeth would have felt at home, but still . . . If I’d been the gambling type, I would have wagered that it was the first time in the dining room’s history when gravy was poured over biscuits and a Jell-O salad was served as a side.

I wore the only dress I’d packed, a simple navy sheath dress made of a material that wouldn’t wrinkle in a suitcase. Precious had insisted on lending me a silk scarf—Hermès, I was sure—to dress it up, and had tied it in an elegant bow on the side of my neck. I’d earned appreciative comments from everyone except Colin, whose gaze only glanced off me before he turned to the food on the table.

Precious and I sat across from him and Arabella, making me grateful that I had someone to look at besides Colin. Anna moved behind us, serving from the large platter of fried chicken. She paused behind Precious, serving fork in hand. “White meat or dark meat, Miss Dubose?”

I refrained from smacking my lips, something we’d done as children when fried chicken was served, no matter how many times Mama told us to stop. “Not to unduly influence you, but I personally love the drumsticks.”

“Me, too. I’d like a drumstick, please.”

Anna hesitated, unsure. When Precious didn’t clarify, I said, “A leg. Because they look like drumsticks.”

“Yes, of course,” the young woman said, placing one on Precious’s plate. “And here’s a thigh since the legs don’t have a lot of meat.”

I selected two drumsticks and reached for the mashed potatoes. I realized that everyone seemed to be watching me for cues, so I made sure to explain my process. “After you scoop a big helping of potatoes, you make a little dimple in the top with your spoon before the gravy comes your way. And then you just fill it up and let some spill over the sides, like this. Make sure you get enough gravy to cover your biscuits, too.”

Next, I told them how to butter the corn bread, stopping short of how my daddy liked to mix together his black-eyed peas, corn bread, and potatoes in a kind of side dish casserole. That would have to wait for another time—the whole eating fried chicken with fingers was clearly almost too overwhelming, despite the fact that Anna had helpfully set each place with a small finger bowl of lemon and water.

“If you want to eat with a fork and knife, go on ahead. I’m not going to judge,” I said. “But if you ever find yourselves in the South again, use your fingers. I hear that it’s illegal to use utensils to eat fried chicken in Gainesville, Georgia, and might be elsewhere in the South, too.”

I picked up a drumstick with my fingers, watching everyone, including Precious, hesitate, their hands suspended over their silverware. I put the chicken down on my plate. “And I’m perfectly happy to use a fork and knife, too. When in Rome and all,” I said, feeling self-conscious.

“Nonsense,” James said, picking up a piece with his fingers. “You’ve gone to all this trouble to make this delicious meal for us, and we should enjoy it in the way it’s intended.”

Penelope followed suit, taking a bite with pinkies extended.

“I’ve always wanted to eat with my fingers,” Arabella said, almost gleefully tearing into her chicken.

“When in Rome,” Colin said, meeting my eyes for the first time as he, too, succumbed to the joys of eating with one’s fingers.

Precious was the last to give up her utensils, her fingers hovering over her plate.

“Really, Precious,” I said, “if you’re more comfortable with a fork and knife, that’s fine. You’ve been overseas so long. Eating habits are hard to get over, especially after almost eight decades.”

“Actually,” she said as she carefully picked up her fork and knife from the table, “I just hate messing up my makeup.” She smiled as she began cutting into the thigh.

When everyone was finished, and I’d received enough compliments that I almost called Aunt Lucinda so she could be thanked in person, Penelope suggested we have dessert in the library.

“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll need that long walk across the house after such a big meal. I’m full as a tick.”

James surprised me by laughing. “How very accurate, Maddie. I imagine we’re all of a similar mind.”

“Oh, she’s got loads more where that came from, I’m afraid,” Colin said. He stood, then pulled out his mother’s chair. “What is the one about someone being so annoying it’s like thumping something off?”

I kept my face as expressionless as his as I turned to him. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I helped Precious from her chair, then linked arms with her, moving slowly as we left the dining room. “We’re having ambrosia for dessert,” I whispered to her. “I’ve been keeping it a surprise, but since you’re about to find out, I thought I’d go ahead and spoil the secret.”

“Ambrosia. How wonderful.” Her voice was neutral,