Chapter 8 - THE EMPTY CHAIR AT SUNDAY DINNER
Sunday arrived with rain tapping gently against the windows.
By four o'clock, Nora had prepared roast chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, and a peach cobbler.
Harold had insisted on helping.
His contribution consisted largely of telling Nora she wasn't using enough butter.
She told him that if he wanted to supervise every ingredient, she would charge him double.
He laughed.
Mrs. Porter laid the table.
Not the enormous mahogany table in the formal dining room.
The smaller wooden table in the breakfast room.
Margaret's yellow quilt hung on the wall.
Fresh flowers stood in an old blue pitcher.
Harold watched every preparation with growing anticipation.
Then he looked toward the door.
“Is Evelyn coming?”
Sebastian hesitated.
“She said she'd try.”
Harold nodded.
But his hands began trembling.
Nora noticed.
She placed a warm cup of tea beside him.
“She'll come if she's ready,” she said gently.
Harold looked at her.
“I wasted so many years.”
Nora sat opposite him.
“You can't give yourself those years back.”
“I know.”
“But you can make room for the next ones.”
He looked toward the empty chair.
“I hope she understands that.”
At five thirty, Ruby arrived with a bouquet of wildflowers.
She wore a yellow sweater and carried a small tin of homemade cookies.
Harold was delighted.
“Well, who is this?”
Ruby smiled.
“I'm Ruby. Mom said you like burned toast.”
Harold laughed.
“Your mother tells too many stories.”
“She says the same about me.”
Harold looked toward Nora.
“I like this girl.”
Nora smiled.
“So do I.”
Ruby handed him the flowers.
Harold accepted them carefully.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Then he did something Sebastian hadn't seen in years.
He asked Mrs. Porter to put on music.
Not the soft instrumental recordings usually played during dinner.
Old jazz.
Margaret's favorite.
Soon, the breakfast room filled with the sound of a saxophone.
Ruby asked Harold whether he knew the song.
He smiled.
“Your mother would have loved it.”
Nora looked up.
He corrected himself.
“Margaret would have loved it.”
Then he added, “She danced badly too.”
Sebastian laughed.
“I remember.”
Harold's eyes shone.
“For once, we agree.”
At six fifteen, the doorbell rang.
Everyone froze.
Sebastian stood.
“I'll get it.”
He walked down the hallway feeling as nervous as he had before his first major business presentation.
When he opened the door, Evelyn stood on the porch.
She carried a small bakery box.
Her hair was damp from the rain.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Sebastian stepped aside.
“Hi, Evie.”
She looked past him into the house.
“Hi.”
He swallowed.
“Dad's waiting.”
Evelyn's expression changed.
She stepped inside.
The smell of roast chicken reached her immediately.
Then the music.
Then she saw the yellow quilt.
She stopped.
“Oh, my God.”
Sebastian followed her gaze.
“She wanted it here.”
Evelyn touched the quilt.
Tears filled her eyes.
“Mom made this.”
“I know.”
“No,” Evelyn whispered. “I mean she made it for my daughter.”
Sebastian stared.
Evelyn swallowed.
“Before Amelia died.”
The words struck the air like something fragile breaking.
Sebastian had almost forgotten how much sadness his sister carried.
Her daughter, Amelia, had been born prematurely and died six weeks later.
The loss happened shortly before the Merrimon Avenue dispute.
Sebastian had attended the funeral.
He'd hugged Evelyn.
Then, within months, they were arguing about investments.
He had never understood how deeply grief shaped the choices she made afterward.
Evelyn looked toward the breakfast room.
“Is Dad in there?”
Sebastian nodded.
She took a breath.
Then walked forward.
Harold was standing beside the table when Evelyn entered.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then he whispered, “Evie?”
She began crying.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Harold reached for the back of a chair.
Nora stepped closer, ready to help if he lost his balance.
But Harold remained standing.
His daughter crossed the room.
He opened his arms.
And Evelyn fell into them.
“I came,” she whispered.
Harold held her tightly.
“I know, sweetheart.”
“I tried to come before.”
He began crying.
“I know that now.”
She clung to him.
“I thought you didn't want me.”
Harold shook his head.
“Oh, baby. Never.”
The room fell silent.
Mrs. Porter was crying.
Ruby stood beside Nora, holding her hand.
Sebastian stared at his father and sister.
Then he turned away.
He hadn't realized how much damage silence could do until he saw the relief of two people finally speaking.
Dinner lasted nearly three hours.
Harold told stories about Margaret.
Evelyn talked about her bakery.
Ruby announced that Sebastian was a terrible cook.
Sebastian protested.
Nora confirmed the accusation.
Everyone laughed.
Then Evelyn opened the bakery box.
Inside was a small peach pie.
Harold stared.
“Your mother's recipe?”
Evelyn smiled.
“With less sugar.”
Harold pretended to look offended.
“Sacrilege.”
They ate every slice.
At the end of the meal, Harold leaned back in his chair.
His plate was almost empty.
He looked at his children, Nora, Ruby, and Mrs. Porter.
Then he whispered, “This is what I wanted.”
Sebastian looked at him.
“What?”
Harold smiled through tears.
“A house that sounds alive.”
Later that night, after the guests had gone, Sebastian walked into the formal dining room.
The enormous table stood unused.
The chandelier glittered overhead.
He looked at the place settings.
Then he began removing them.
One plate.
Then another.
Then another.
Mrs. Porter entered.
“Mr. Brooks?”
Sebastian turned.
“Agnes, tomorrow I want this room opened up.”
She looked surprised.
“For what?”
He looked at the eighteen-foot table.
“I don't know yet.”
May you like
Then he smiled.
“But I'm beginning to think twenty empty chairs aren't nearly as valuable as six occupied ones.”
