Chapter 27I joined Philip, my mother, and Marshall at the butcher-block island for dinner. Marshall seemed to be sober and more alert than earlier.
“Where’s Paula?” Marshall asked, a forkful of red skinned mash potatoes hovering at his gaping mouth.
“Sleeping,” I said, reaching for my glass of red wine.
“That’s…odd,” he said, filling his mouth with Philip’s hearty cooking.
“It’s not surprising,” my mother piped up, looking at Marshall sitting across from her. “You’ve known her for, what, five years, give or take? On and off?”
Marshall shifted in his seat, placing his fork on the table, and glancing over at Philip and me staring down into our heaping plates, unresponsive.
“I, um—” He mumbled, tongue tied, and reaching for his coffee cup.
“Um, um.” My mother glowered at Marshall, her
