Gerald stood up from table one, knocking his linen napkin onto the floor.

“That is private family mail, Clare,” Gerald called out, his voice sharp across the hardwood.

“You put those papers away right now.”

Clare did not look toward table one.

She smoothed the blue paper flat on the ledge of the podium.

“I’m reading paragraph three,” Clare said to the room.

Her voice was quiet at first, then carried clearly to all two hundred fifty guests.

“Dear Clare, I know you’re sitting on the porch steps tonight wondering why the house feels so empty.