The mahogany table gleamed. Limoges and sterling patterned the mirrored wood, with spots of white and gold and lines of silver.
Three place settings, a distant trinity bound only by the constraints of custom, not of affection. Chill blue eyes, so like her own, looked askance from each end of the table.
“Well, Happy Thanksgiving,” her father said.
“I'm sure that this is what the Pilgrims had in mind,” Serena answered, trying to wash away the taste of hypocrisy with a deep swallow of wine. Even a thirty year old Latour couldn't manage that task.
“Aren't you thankful for something, Serena?” Mr. Southerlyn asked contemptuously.
“Yes. Unfortunately, just not what you're thankful for, Dad."