My carrot and black bean salad had suddenly lost all its flavor. I placed my fork beside my plate and stared at the wall across from me.
“Sheila is actually leaving her precious Tamehold to come see me? Will wonders never cease? Is she bringing the children? Dafny should be eleven this year, and David just turned nine,” Martha said musingly.
Dr Stevens kept on shoveling in the food he’d piled on his plate, but he looked over at Martha, swallowed, and said, “Now, sweetheart . . .”
At that, Martha put her fork down, then gave him a glare that could have melted granite. “I warned you not to start that, Ben. It’s bad enough that Frank keeps issuing love handles, but he has good reason. But not you, you old coot. And why did my daughter write to you instead of me? Can you answer that, please?”
“Probably because I was the one who wrote her about your intentions. She needed to know how you’ve decided to adopt Shama and these two boys,” he said, glancing over at the boys.
“It’s none of her business. And it’s not any of yours what I do.”
I stood up, bound for the kitchen. I’d already heard this argument, and I didn’t want to be part of it. I would have been gone if I weren’t hesitating, wondering if I should grab up the boys and take them outside to see Frey. The stallion would welcome a visit.
But Carlo and Francis were still eating their dinner, in slow motion unfortunately, because their ears had grown attentive and their eyes were round saucers of amazement as their heads flipped back and forth between the two elderly adults.
Martha looked up and saw me. “Sit down, Shama. This conversation is stopping right now, isn’t it, Dr. Stevens,” she said, letting everyone know how angry she was at him because when she wasn’t calling him something demeaning like Old Coot, she addressed him as Ben.
He’d finally realized that everyone was staring at him: the little boys with open mouth consternation, Frank with a proper poker face, although he, too, had stopped eating and immediately dropped his eyes to contemplate the empty fork twisting about in his hand . . .
And then there was me, fidgeting uncertainly, probably looking like a scared rabbit about to flee from the dining room so I could hide in the kitchen where at least there was no one about to erupt into battle.
The doctor’s eyes, finished scanned those faces, finally returned to Martha’s. Even if the man were a dull wit about people’s feelings, he could surely see her turned down mouth, her stiffened body posture, and her narrowed, glowering eyes.