When they returned to the living room, Frank sat alone, a look of relief plastered across his face.
“Where did Mom go?” Caroline asked him.
“To check on the dinner,” he replied, dragging one knuckle across his forehead. “Whew.”
I hope she wasn’t mean to him. Normally she pretends he’s not here. Rather than embarrass the shy man—Victor has taught me so much about what goes on beneath the surface—she commented, “Oh. Is it turkey as usual?”
“Smells like it.” He wrinkled his nose.
Caroline frowned. She sacrificed it again. Ugh. It’s not that hard to cook a turkey. “I’d better go help.” She slid her arms around Victor’s neck and kissed him again. Then she headed resignedly down the hall.
Like the living room, the kitchen had been designed with form rather than function in mind. The marble
