The white courier envelope from Cho Law Offices sat on the granite island next to the silver gravy boat. The gravy boat was a genuine Gorham piece, valued at eighty dollars, which my mother had left at my house after Thanksgiving so I could polish the tarnish off the spout before the next family gathering.
My nine-year-old daughter, Emma, stood by the toaster, carefully folding paper napkins into neat triangles. She adjusted the hem of her green cardigan, twisting the knitted cotton around her small index finger.
“Is Grandma Helen going to like the potato casserole, Mom?” Emma whispered.
“Everyone likes warm potatoes, sweetie,” I said, keeping my voice low and level.
I slipped the thick, white Tyvek envelope into the side pocket of my leather tote bag and zipped it shut. The return address was Daniel Cho, Attorney at Law, Route Four. Emma did not notice the movement; she was too busy lining up the corners of her third paper napkin.
“Should I put the napkins in the basket now?” Emma asked.
“Put them right on top of the container,” I said, fitting the blue plastic lid over the steaming hash browns.
The scent of damp pine needles drifted from the back porch where the holiday wreath hung against the glass. I glanced at my wristwatch, a silver Seiko I had owned for ten years, and adjusted the leather strap by one notch to keep my fingers busy. We needed to leave Maple Avenue by five if we wanted to beat the holiday traffic heading toward Elm Street.
The grandfather clock in my parents’ hallway ticked with a heavy, metallic rhythm that always seemed to slow down the closer we got to January. The living room smelled of artificial pine spray and the sharp, vinegar scent of my mother’s lemon furniture polish.
My mother, Helen, stood by the grand brick fireplace, adjusting a double strand of faux pearls that sat against her high-collared red blouse. Below her, a dozen glittering gift bags were arranged in a perfect semi-circle under the artificial tree.
“You brought the casserole in that plastic dish, Julia?” Helen asked, her voice carrying that familiar, sharp edge. “Couldn’t you find the ceramic server I gave you three years ago?”
