27
"Your mother's dishing out in the kitchen," Alice's father said. "Everyone else is at the table."
That was Don Lynch's way of saying “you're late.” Alice dumped the bottle of wine in his hands and walked along the narrow hallway, decked in laminate wood rather than the old, green carpet. She heard chatter coming from the dining room to her left. She put her head around the doorframe, as if waiting for permission to enter.
Oh great, a full house.
Chet, her dark-haired wisp of a younger brother, sat next to Fran, his blonde, ample young wife. Granny sat at the far end, boosted by a fat gray cushion.
Chet and Fran's young children, Bobby and Leanne, raced around the dinner table. There was enough to feed a congregation. Pitchers of water and lemonade. A giant basket of cornbread. The
