And at the kitchen table, in his navy peacoat, with his gray scarf still around his neck, sat Graham Ellsworth.
He had a plate of fried smelts in front of him that he had clearly not asked for. He had a glass of red wine he had clearly not asked for either. On the floor next to his chair was her shopping bag of ornaments, the glass birds' spun-glass tails peeking out of the newspaper, and on the table beside his elbow was a box wrapped in green-and-gold Halloran's paper. He was holding a fork in one hand, uncertainly, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to use it, and Aunt Philomena was explaining to him, with a floury finger, the difference between the seven fishes and the thirteen fishes.
He looked up and saw her in the doorway.
He stood up so fast he knocked the chair over.
The kitchen went quiet. Aunt Philomena stopped mid-fish. Vince stopped mid-pizzella. Rosemary Castellano turned around from the stove with a slotted spoon in her hand and looked from her daughter to the tax attorney and back again, and then — slowly, deliberately, with the grace of a woman who has been waiting a very long time — she turned off the burner under the smelts.
"Philomena," she said. "Vincent. Come help me in the dining room."
"With what?" said Vince.
"With anything," said Rosemary, and took him by the ear.