hope whatever number you have in your head is worth this.”
Camille put down her fork. “Worth what?”
“The way everyone in this room is looking at you.”
Arthur placed his hand over hers beneath the table before she could respond.
“Deborah,” he said, with the particular calm of someone who has lived long enough to know that raising his voice would only give the other person something to hold onto, “don’t confuse cruelty with loyalty.”
Her mouth tightened. “I’m protecting Mom’s memory.”
Camille looked at her carefully. “I’m not here to replace your mother.”
“Don’t speak about her,” Alfred said.
Arthur’s voice stayed level. “Sophia was my wife. Camille is my wife now. One doesn’t erase the other.”
Norman laughed. “Dad, she’s younger than Deborah.”
“Then Deborah is old enough to know better than to behave this way.”
Camille wanted to leave. She had spent most of her life
