Chapter 7: Sunday Dinner

"We can manage it," I said, and Caleb said, "Of course," at the same moment.

My father beamed at both of us.

He had no idea what he'd done.

I went back to my office and did not look at Caleb again until Sunday.

That was not for lack of trying on his part.

He walked past my door four times on Tuesday and slowed every time.

On Thursday he left a coffee on my desk with no note, made exactly the way I take it.

I drank it and told Mara it was from the intern.

Sunday dinner at my father's house in Bexley is the one meeting a week nobody can skip.

Diane cooks and my father carves.

The four of us sit at the long walnut table and talk about everything except work.

That is the rule, and my father enforces it more strictly than any rule at the company.

I arrived at six with a bottle of red wine and a face I had rehearsed in the car.

Caleb's grey Volvo was already in the driveway.

He was in the kitchen when I walked in, leaning against the counter with a beer.

Diane stood at the stove stirring something that smelled of rosemary.

"Hi, sweetheart," Diane said, and kissed my cheek.

"Hi."

"You look well. Rested. Did you sleep better in Dayton?"

"Mom," Caleb said, without turning his head.

"I'm only asking."

I put the wine on the counter and got a glass, and when I turned around Caleb's eyes were on me.

They stayed for a moment.

Then he looked at the beer in his hand, and the corner of his mouth went up.

My father came in from the garden and kissed Diane on the neck, which is what he does.

She swatted him with a dishtowel, which is what she does.

For three years I have watched that exact exchange and thought: they're happy.

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