Chapter 8: The Serenade

Tobin set the laundry basket on the floor and looked at his brother for a long time.

"Is this what it looks like?" he asked.

"It is a closet," Anders said.

"With my wife in it."

"You told Mother she was your wife. You told me she was nobody's wife. Choose one."

Tobin's jaw worked.

Then he noticed the pad of sticky notes in Anders's hand and plucked the top one free.

He read it aloud, in a voice meant for a stage. "House rules. One, no touching under the family's roof."

"Give that back," said Anders.

"I'm only reading. Rule one." He looked at me, and at Anders's collar, and smiled. "Rule one doesn't seem to be doing great, brother."

"Towels are on the second shelf," Anders said. "The good ones."

Tobin took them. He took the sticky note too, and folded it into his pocket.

"See you at dinner," he said. "I have a surprise."

I did not like the way he said it.

Tobin has never in his life wanted anything that was not already somebody else's.

At dinner, he was in a clean white shirt, with a vase of roses beside his plate.

There were twelve roses. Red.

He had not brought any to the wedding.

"For my wife," he announced, and set the whole vase down in front of my plate.

Helen put down her fork. "Tobin!"

"I've been a terrible husband," Tobin said, "and I want to make it up."

Bree, across the table, kept her smile on. Her knuckles on the stem of her glass were white.

"They're lovely," I said, because their father was watching.

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