Helen opened the envelope. She read it at the table, Richard and Owen on either side of her, the noise of the reception providing a strange kind of privacy. Owen had written about the years since the slow rebuilding, the life that had followed. Near the end, he had written: I don’t know how to carry what I owe. But I would like, if you’ll allow it, to spend some time trying.
Claire, who had been reading over her mother’s shoulder and doing an imperfect job of concealing it, abruptly straightened up. “Right,” she said, with the brisk efficiency she deployed when she was trying not to cry in front of people. “I believe someone at this table needs more champagne and I’m fairly certain it’s me.” She disappeared. Marcus followed her.