Collin squeezed his buttocks together and walked sideways like a crab around the table, picking at the crudité, the shrimp dip, and the crackers and cheese.
“Uncle Collin,” Patrick said sotte voce, “how much longer must we stay? I count eighteen people in this cracker box.”
Collin looked around at the motley collection. Too many grays, to be sure, among the Limericks, Balmorals, and friends – all for little Grace’s christening party. Collin looked around him, Agnes speaking with Norman’s father, Norman’s mother holding the baby and talking with Siobhan, Norman speaking with Angelo and Cristina Rosamilia –
Odd, Collin thought, Cristina’s posture while she looked at Norman – and the way Norman held his hands behind his back, Angelo prattling on about Roosevelt’s election victory – as if a coded language existed between Norman and Cristina. As if they had been lovers. Collin looked over to his niece – Agnes smiled and laughed, going from guest to guest, now talking with Cristina’s parents. Just as ignorant of the signals being passed between her husband and her best friend. Odd, indeed.
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