“If you don’t pick up, I’m coming back over.”

I watched her taillights glow red against the gravel driveway before I pulled the heavy oak door shut against the autumn wind.

By nine o’clock, the glass mansion had settled into its usual evening quiet, apart from the hum of the stainless steel refrigerator.

Daniel stood at the marble island with his back to me, waiting for the kettle to come to a boil on the gas range.

He always insisted on brewing his own particular dark roast espresso every morning on the imported Italian machine, and he never let me touch the silver levers, but in the evenings he made my Sleepytime vanilla chamomile tea himself.