THE PLACE AT THE TABLE

Gwendolyn stiffened, her face flushing with an instinctive mixture of old pride and deep, lingering embarrassment.

""I was in the neighborhood for a gallery opening,"" Gwendolyn lied awkwardly, looking down at her polished designer shoes. ""I... I saw the building. The architectural reviews in the *Chronicle* called it a triumph.""

Maya looked at her former sister-in-law. In Gwendolyn’s eyes, Maya saw no remaining arrogance, only the profound, hollow isolation of someone who lived in a world where everyone had an invoice and no one had a friend.

""Have you eaten lunch, Gwendolyn?"" Maya asked softly.

Gwendolyn looked past Maya toward the long redwood table, where seventy people were laughing, breaking bread, and raising glasses of water in the bright afternoon sun.

""I... I don't think I belong in there, Maya,"" Gwendolyn whispered, her voice cracking as a tear welled in her eye. ""After what we did... after what I said in that hallway.""

Maya smiled—a warm, radiant smile that held no judgment, no superiority, and no conditions.

She reached out and took Gwendolyn’s trembling, manicured hand in her own.

""In this house, Gwendolyn,"" Maya said gently, ""we don't check whose name is on the deed before we pull up a chair. Come inside. There’s a place for you at the table.""