The yard was fully bright when I went back down to collect the tray, the shadow of the block wall shrinking toward the house. Daniel was standing by the edge of the pool, his back to me, his hands deep in his trouser pockets.
“The girls are ready,” I said, stopping three feet from the step.
He turned slowly. His face had that quiet, smooth look he wore when a contract was signed, but his eyes were flat.
“My mother says you were struggling in the kitchen,” he said.
“The skillet was heavy,” I said, my hand instinctively going to my ring finger, rolling the gold band against the skin.
He walked toward me, his leather shoes clicking on the concrete. He stopped so close I could smell his cologne, the sharp scent of cedar and mint.
“You need to remember who built this house for you,” he said.
I did not answer.
“I need a son, Elena,” he said, his voice dropping into that cold, steady register that made the hairs on my arms stand up. “My father’s name does not end with two girls.”
He reached out and grabbed my upper arm, his thumb digging into the muscle just below my shoulder. He did not shake me, but the pressure was constant, pushing me back toward the edge of the brick step.
“We are going to have that discussion tonight,” he said.
I tried to pull back, my heel catching the empty space where the concrete dropped six inches to the lower patio. My weight shifted.
