The glass pitcher of lemonade had a small hairline crack near the base that only showed when the yellow liquid turned the glass dark. I carried it out to the redwood deck, keeping my thumbs clear of the rough seam. The air smelled of damp pine wood and the cold, mineral scent of Silver Lake.
My father, Robert, adjusted his silver watch strap and stared at the empty glasses on the glass table. The watch was a heavy piece of polished steel that had cost him four hundred dollars in Denver three years ago, and he wore it even when he was sitting by the water in his faded polo shirt.
“We have been waiting ten minutes, Olivia,” he said, his deep voice carrying over the sound of the lake water lapping against the dock below.
“I had to squeeze the lemons,” I said, pausing before I answered to make sure my voice did not shake.
My mother, Jennifer, smoothed her linen skirt over her knees with both hands, her fingers moving in a rhythmic, repeating slide. The fabric was already creased from the car ride, but she kept pressing it flat as if she could erase the wrinkles by force.
“Your father has a conference call at three, sweetie, and we wanted to finish lunch before the noise starts,” she said, her high voice rising at the end of the sentence. “We have to keep things quiet for the banking clients.”
The bank had been in the family for two generations, and Robert spoke about the town’s business owners as if they were his personal tenants. Every conversation at our table eventually came back to the ledger and the community’s perception of us.
I set the pitcher down on the round wooden coaster, but my hand misjudged the distance by an inch. A few drops of yellow juice splashed onto the polished tabletop, bead-like and bright under the mountain sun.
“Clumsy,” Robert said, not looking at me as he picked up his napkin to dab at the wood. “You always did have trouble with basic coordination, Olivia.”
