Helen opened the door without knocking, which was her right and her habit. She took in the four of them, the dead bouquet absent, the living phone present. Her eyes were dry and furious in the manner of women who have already spent their weeping on a smaller coffin than they deserved.
"I am not going to the luncheon," she said. "I am going to your house, David. I will sit in the living room if you don't want me in the kitchen. I will not be told later by a woman from the altar guild what my daughter said."
"You won't," David said.
"Good." Helen looked at Lauren for a long moment. What passed in the look was not forgiveness and not condemnation. It was the accounting Helen had been keeping since Lauren first appeared in the hallway of the hospital with a paper cup of ice chips and a paperback Claire had asked for. "You were her friend," Helen said. "Before you were anything else. Try to remember the order."
"I never forgot it," Lauren said. "That's part of the trouble."