My father, Harold, came slowly down the back stairs, his leather slippers scuffing on the oak treads.

He had his wire-rimmed reading glasses in one hand and a white linen handkerchief in the other.

He stopped at the edge of the tile, his eyes moving from the cast-iron skillet to Emma’s face.

“Patricia,” my father said, his low voice hardly more than a rumble.

“What happened down here?”

“Rachel’s overreacting,” my mother said without turning from the window.

“Go back upstairs, Harold.