Why are there so many forks? Noah asked, staring with apprehension at the elegantly laid table in front of us.
I don’t know, I admitted. I think you’re supposed to put the napkin on your lap. Just try to do what Papa does.
He frowned unhappily. Since I’d given him the news about repeating fifth grade, his mood was black as night.
A waiter pulled a chilled bottle of wine—or champagne, or whatever it was—out of a bucket of ice, and for a moment I thought I was on the set of Downton Abbey. It was not Downton Abbey, of course, but much worse: it was Frenelli’s in downtown Tupelo on a Friday evening with summer kicking up its heels as a raft of severe weather prepared to move into the area.
“It’s so lovely. You must come here often,” Mrs. Ledbetter said to Jackson.
“Well, no,” Jackson said
