It had been a quiet Thanksgiving dinner, and not in that companionable manner that Dan had relished between him and Sullivan, but in a tense, ill-at-ease way. Both men made approving sounds about the dinner Dan had prepared and both ate well, indulging in second helpings of everything and even eating a big slice of the pumpkin pie Sullivan had brought over, topped with Dan’s homemade whipped cream. They even made the usual comments about being stuffed and how the turkey had made each sleepy.
A football game came on in the living room, not out of any interest in sports, but because it was traditional. It also helped to fill the silence.
Both of them, Dan knew, were preoccupied with thoughts of Mark, who might as well have stayed, as much as his presence remained stamped on the day. Dan ho
