Arthur picked up the portfolio and closed it.

“Your mother holds the baby when the plates start moving.”

At seven I carried the roast chicken in on the vintage silver tray, and the room filled with noise.

Frank sat at the near end, by the butter.

Evelyn was turning her pearls between her fingers.

Julian stood at the head of the table with one hand on the back of his chair, his watch face angled toward the room.

“Now that,” Frank said, “looks like a holiday.”