Page 87 of Theo of Golden

Theo noted: at twenty-five, spry; at fifty, settled; at seventy-five, tired. He nodded as he gazed at the triptych. “Once again, Asher, your work is remarkable. I don’t know if she grows more beautiful left to right or right to left.”

A call from Minnette in the dining room announced that the meal was ready to be served.

Accolades — about the appearance and feel of the house, about the aroma that greeted the guests and foretold the feast, about the weather and autumn color that had been so gloriously on display all week — were in generous supply.

Lightheartedness reigned.

Everyone was present but Pearce.

Brooke had learned, through a history of disappointments, not to wait for him. Frankly, she had been reluctant to invite him — even if he was Asher’s brother — especially with first-time guests around the table that night.

If he showed up, he would be welcome. But his absence, if he didn’t, would not be considered a loss.

Finally, everything was set. The table was worthy of a Rockwell painting. Brooke pushed a strand of loose hair from her face with the back of her hand, took off her apron, surveyed the abundance, and spoke the awaited words. “Well, let’s eat. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

As if on cue, the front door opened, and Pearce stormed into the room. Everything about him suggested hurry. Before meeting or acknowledging anyone else in the room, he pretended an apology that quickly became an opportunity to assert his importance.

“Sorry I’m late. Aw, man, what a day. I have a bunch of guys working on a remodel down on First. A bunch of Mexicans, so they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. They’re still down there. I told ‘em don’t even think about quitting till all the windows are glazed. You can hardly get decent help these days.”

Brooke pretended a welcome in return. Her voice, so cheerful seconds earlier, was tense. “Well, Pearce, we’re glad you could join us.” Her face expressed a much different sentiment.

Asher introduced him to the other guests. Pearce nodded at them with hardly a glance until he looked at Theo. He hesitated, ever so briefly, as if trying to place the face. Had he seen the old man before?

In fact, he had.

Months earlier, on the bench at the Fedder. The Talker. The Phone. The Portuguese national anthem.

Theo, too, made the connection immediately but held his peace.

After meeting his fellow guests, Pearce yanked a chair away from the table and sat down. He was the first to do so.

The other men, following Theo’s lead, stood until the three women were in their chairs. Pearce was oblivious to the gesture of respect.

When everyone was seated, Asher greeted everyone again. “Before we begin, I asked Theo if he would give us a blessing over the meal.”

Pearce, who was already reaching across his plate to one of the casseroles, pulled back his hand awkwardly to wait for an “amen.”

Theo focused his attention on Brooke. “Brooke, first, I think we owe you our thanks. Simone and I particularly, both so far from our homes, are grateful that you have included us in your family today. You all,” he looked at every face around the table, even Pearce’s, “have been so kind. Asher asked me to offer a blessing. He told me a prayer would be permissible. Shall we?”

Everyone bowed their heads.

What followed was a short but eloquent recitation of recent gifts, with a pause before each.

The beauty of portraits.

Laughter at the Verbivore.

Ellen’s love of songbirds.

The unhurried delight of thoughtful conversation.

The glorious mystery of music.

The willingness of Asher and Brooke to welcome others into their home. “For all of these gifts that point to You in heaven, we do give —”

A phone buzzed.

It was not loud, but given the profound silence that filled the room at the moment, it was inescapable. Pearce slid his chair back from the table, so he could remove the phone from his pants pocket. As Theo attempted to conclude the blessing, Pearce tapped the screen of his device.