Chapter 6: Sunday Brunch

Torsten Sandvik's lake house had eleven bedrooms and a dining table long enough to land a plane on.

Cavan counted nineteen Sandviks around it on Sunday at noon.

Aunts in pearls, cousins in cashmere, two uncles who had not looked up from their phones once.

Nobody had looked at him, either, except to look away.

"The new husband," Torsten said warmly from the head of the table. "Welcome to the family, Mr. Keegan."

He was sixty-one, silver-haired, in a bow tie the color of old wine, and his voice was soft as a pillow.

"Thank you for having us," Cavan said.

"Of course. Family is everything. Isn't that right, Anders?"

"Absolutely, Dad," said Anders, from the other end.

He was grinning at Cavan over the rim of a crystal glass.

Posy sat between Ingrid and Cavan in a green velvet dress, swinging her feet.

Ingrid's hand rested on the tablecloth next to Cavan's, not touching, a careful inch away.

Neither had mentioned Thursday night since.

Both of them thought about it constantly.

A silver bowl of soup arrived.

Posy looked at it, and then at the thirteen forks beside her plate.

"Which one is for what?" she whispered.

"Start from the outside," Cavan whispered back.

"Is it a test?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to win."

Anders snapped his fingers at the waiter, who leaned in.

"Take the bottle off the sideboard," Anders said. "Let Ingrid's husband pour. He's used to serving people, after all."

The table went quiet.

Aunts smiled into their napkins.

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