He hadn’t left her side all day.
Craig and Kristen came in twenty minutes late.
Craig had a bottle of expensive wine in one hand and the gold Rolex on his wrist, and he was smiling the broad, easy smile that had talked half our family into things for forty years.
Behind him came Kristen in a camel coat, her blond hair blown out perfectly, a heavy Cartier bracelet glinting at her wrist.
She looked around my living room as if she’d stepped into a bus station.
“Well,” she said. “Cozy.”
“Hi, Kristen.”
“Carrie, honey.” She kissed the air beside my cheek. “You look exhausted.”
I was carrying a platter of roasted potatoes.
She took the serving spoon out of my hand.
“Here, let me. You’ll drip.”
Somebody’s fork stopped halfway to a plate.
Kristen raised her voice to the pitch of a woman who wants to be heard.
