I went inside to fetch the heavy ceramic salad bowl at four o’clock, glad to leave the bright, pressing sun of the deck.
The kitchen was cooler than the deck, smelling of old copper pans hanging from the ceiling rack and the damp wood of the cabinets under the sink.
I opened the heavy door of the refrigerator, searching the bottom shelf for the vinaigrette bottle that had slipped behind the milk cartons.
A shadow fell over the light from the open fridge door, blocking the draft of cool air that was keeping my face comfortable.
Tyler stood in the narrow space between the kitchen island and the refrigerator, holding a long metal spatula from the outdoor grill. He tapped his college ring against the marble counter, a steady metal click that sounded like a fingernail on glass.
“Watch your step, Sis,” he said, blocking my exit with one broad shoulder. “The floor looks slick near the sink, and we know how you get.”
“I am just getting the dressing, Tyler,” I said, keeping my back straight against the cold edge of the refrigerator door.
