Chapter 33
The turkey was good. He knew it was good because he had been making it for seven years and had long since stopped making the mistakes that made it otherwise, and because Gerald Sherman had taken a second helping without comment, which from Gerald constituted the highest available praise. The sides were good. The table was good. The wine was good — he'd chosen it himself, a Burgundy that was better than the occasion warranted, because he'd needed something to look forward to in the afternoon and had arrived at the wine. He sat at the head of the table and ate and participated and listened to the conversation move around him with the practiced, composed quality of a man who is present in every measurable external sense and somewhere else entirely. Maryanne was talking about David's struct
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