Douglas had asked her to set the table, and she did so willingly enough.
She grabbed plates, cups, and silverware and carried them to the table, then went back for napkins and salad bowls. Back home she and her dad had never bothered with table setting, just serving themselves off the stove and eating wherever they wanted to, but she was going to do the nicest job of it that she could if it was what Douglas wanted.
She sat out everything nicely, than went back to him. "Okay, table's all ready Douglas."
"Perfect timing. I think I can manage the milk on my own, if you can grab the food?"
"Sure thing!" But she waited before doing as he'd asked, watching him carefully as he picked up the carton and started hobbling toward the dining room, ready to spring into action if it looked like he was going to lose his balance. So, she was looking right at him when he suddenly stopped, standing in the door between the rooms. "Douglas?" she asked.
"Hea-- I mean, Cheryl," he said, looking back at her with a strangely sad expression on his face. "Did you mean to do this?"
"What? I set the table, like you asked. Did I do something wrong?"
"Come see for yourself," he said, moving out of the way.
"I don't see what I could have-- /oh/." What she'd done was obvious immediately now that she was actually paying attention. Where there should have just been settings for her and Douglas, she'd unconsciously put out a third. "...I didn't mean to do that."
"Didn't think you did."
"I'll just... put away the extra things, okay?"
He started moving forward again, awkwardly putting the milk on the table and then sitting at one of the spots. "No, it's all right," he said, smiling at her faintly but still looking sad for her. "I don't think I'll mind sharing my table with a ghost."
She smiled back at him, went to get their dinner, and tried her best to imagine that her father really did sit in that third seat.