I squeezed the dish towel in my hands, wishing Thomas were in the room to help me navigate the quiet minefield of his mother’s preferences.
“Every family does things differently,” I said. “We have Alice’s pictures here, and that is what matters.”
Mia did not look entirely satisfied, but she turned back to her wooden box, carefully painting a tiny gold latch on the front.
By two in the afternoon, the heat had settled into the floorboards of the dining room. I smoothed a pair of gray trousers on the dining table, folding them along the creases before placing them into Thomas’s open suitcase.
Thomas stood by the window, his low voice rumbling as he spoke into his phone about a flight delay in Chicago. He hung up and sighed, checking his watch with a quick flick of his wrist.
“The connection in Detroit is tight,” Thomas said, running a hand through his dark hair. “If I miss it, I will not get to the conference until tomorrow morning.”
“You will make it,” I said, tucking his shaving kit into the corner of the suitcase. “Just focus on your presentation.”
He walked over to the table and watched me pack. His eyes looked tired, shadowed by the long hours he had been pulling at the firm.
“My mother called me at the office this morning,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
I paused with a rolled-up sleeve in my hand. “About her birthday dinner on Saturday?”
“She told me she wanted things to be simple this year,” Thomas said.
He checked his watch again, a habit that always grew worse when he was thinking about his parents.
“Simple?” I asked, looking up at him. “Eleanor does not do simple.”
“She said she wants a backyard barbecue at the house,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “Just hot dogs and paper plates on the lawn.”
