She sat on the bedroom bench with the index card toast still in the sleeve of the blouse she had taken off and folded. She read the toast once and tore it in half and then in half again until the praise was confetti she put in the trash under a tissue.
Frank slept in the den with his shoes still on for an hour and then sat in the dark.
Patrick drove to his apartment and stood at the sink and called his wife—he had a wife, Jenna, who had not come to the party because their youngest had a fever. Jenna said, “Did you do it.”
“Yes.”
“Is your mom all right.”
“No.”
“Come home.”
He went home. He told Jenna the dining room. She listened. She did not say you should have told her privately first. She had said that ten days ago and he had not listened. She only said, “Your dad is seventy. Your mom is sixty-eight. They will not date after this. They will either stay in a ruined house or split a ruined house.”
“I know.”
“Do you regret the gift.”
Patrick thought of the gold balloons.
“I regret the candles were her job.”
In the morning Margaret came down and made coffee for one. Frank stood in the kitchen door.
“Peggy.”
“You may use the shower. You may not use my name like that.”
He showered. He came out. She was at the table with the photograph turned over so she would not have to see the hands.
“How many years,” she said.