Then he looked up at the porch and saw me in his father’s rocking chair, holding a cup of coffee.
The clapping faltered. Died away.
Cullen walked up the crushed-shell path. Fast. His jaw was tight. Blythe hurried behind him, her orchids bouncing.
He stopped at the bottom of my porch steps.
“Mom.” His voice was low and hard. “Open the door. Now.”
I didn’t move.
Laurelai pushed through the crowd and came to stand beside him.
“Delia, give the children their keys. Everyone’s waiting.”
“Hello, Cullen,” I said. “How
