Dinner was a casual affair, the food not as spicy as Catherine had thought it would be, but filling and delicious and made in massive quantities. People laughed and talked, sometimes over one another, passing serving bowls or even hopping up to walk down to the far end of the table for what they wanted. It was informal, bordering on chaotic. It was fantastic.
From all of the chatter Catherine deduced that the evenings when Stephen had slipped away, not to return till late, had been spent here.
Afterward, when the last bit of dessert had been eaten, Catherine helped Stephen’s three aunts and grandmother clear the table. They wouldn’t let her help wash the dishes, but she sat on a stool at the counter in the kitchen and listened to them chatter happily about babies and bargains, the lyrical cadence of their voices making even the mundane seem magical. And she knew if not for her presence much of the conversation would have been conducted in Spanish and more than likely would have centered on her.
“Christina and Miguel are expecting again. They are hoping for a boy this time.” For Catherine’s benefit Rosaria added, “They already have four daughters.”
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