The solarium, its greenery rustling while snow drifted against milk-glassy panes segmented with wrought iron, was a pleasant place to have breakfast. In summer it was cool and bright; in winter it was warm and cheery even when ice made baroque traceries on the outside of its semi-opaque walls. A white wicker table covered with bright green cloth stood companionably with matching wicker chairs; Dad was already up, his suit immaculate but tie absent and the first two buttons of his shirt undone. He was buried in the newspaper; a white china coffee mug steamed gently before him.
By long agreement, neither of them spoke before breakfast was finished. Jack took his own chair, glancing at the empty one; Zoe’s door had been firmly closed when he passed just a few minutes earlier.
Maybe she’d sl
