“She says traffic’s terrible.” “Then we should begin,” I said.

He glanced up at me, mildly surprised by my composure, and opened his mouth to say something — and the doorbell rang before he could.

He set down his glass and smoothed his shirt, and on his way past me to sit at the head of the table he leaned in and said, low, so only I would hear it: “Try not to look pathetic tonight.

Sabrina will be living here, once you’ve moved into the guest room.” I did not answer him.