The smoke from the green egg grill smelled of damp hickory, though the wind off the ridge carried the sharper scent of decaying oak leaves. My father, Arthur, sat on the edge of the wrought-iron patio chair, his ankles crossed to hide the frayed seam on his left loafer.
Madison, Daniel’s sister, leaned against the stone balustrade of the patio, twirling her wine glass by its thin stem. The red liquid climbed the glass in rings before settling back into the bowl.
“Arthur,” Madison said, her voice carrying easily over the low hum of the lawnmower next door. “Those shoes have certainly seen some service. Did you wear them to school back in the seventies?”
My mother, Elena, clutched her handbag tighter in her lap. She looked down at the concrete pavers, her shoulders rising slightly as she drew a shallow breath.
Daniel was standing by the grill, flipping three-pound ribeyes with a pair of long silver tongs. He did not look up from the gray smoke rising from the coals.
“They are comfortable, Madison,” my father said. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his cotton handkerchief, and began to clean his wire-rimmed glasses with slow, deliberate circles. “A good sole is hard to find these days.”
“I suppose so, if you are shopping at the outlet mall,” Madison said. She took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes sliding toward me. “Though I imagine retired school principals have their own secret bargain spots.”
I adjusted the silver wristwatch on my left wrist, the one my parents had saved for three months to buy me when I passed my CPA exam. The metal band was cold against my skin, a heavy weight that kept me anchored to the stone patio.
“Daniel,” I said.
My husband scraped the grate with his brass brush, the metal-on-metal screeching louder than the wind. He kept his back to the table, his shoulders hunched against the cold afternoon air.
“The steaks are almost done,” Daniel said, his voice clipped and rapid as he shuffled the meat to the cooler side of the grill. “We should get the plates out.”
Madison smiled into her glass, her thumb tracing the rim. My father put his glasses back on, adjusting the wire frames behind his ears with a steady hand that did not match the tightness in his jaw.
“I can help with the plates,” my mother murmured, her fingers still locked around the strap of her purse.
“No, Mom, stay there,” I said, my voice flatter than I intended.
I walked toward the kitchen, the heavy glass door sliding open with a dry rattle. Behind me, I heard Madison say something else in a low, teasing tone, followed by the light, dry chuckle of Daniel’s father, Thomas, who had just stepped onto the patio.
The grease from the ribeyes had cooled into white circles on the stoneware plates by the time the kitchen quieted down. I stood at the deep stainless-steel sink, the soapy water hot enough to turn my fingers pink.
Daniel walked in carrying the empty salad bowl. He set it on the granite island with a soft clink, then reached for a clean dish towel.
“They enjoyed the steak,” he said, rubbing his collar where the starch had stiffened. “My dad said the cut was excellent.”
“Your sister insulted my father’s shoes, Daniel,” I said, not turning around from the sink. “And she did it in front of my mother.”
“She was just teasing, Claire. You know how Madison is. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
I turned off the faucet, and the sudden silence in the kitchen made the hum of the refrigerator sound louder.
“She does mean something by it,” I said, wiping my hands on the dish towel. “She means to remind them that we have money and they don’t. And you stood there and let her do it.”
“I was cooking,” Daniel said, his words crowding each other as he spoke. “What did you want me to do, start a fight over shoes during Sunday dinner? We have to keep the peace.”