SLOANE
Friday dinner in the basement was Dad’s idea, same as Thursday.
“It’s a tradition,” he announced, hauling down the folding table with the enthusiasm of a man who’d spent forty-eight hours sweating through every shirt he owned and was determined to find the silver lining. “Summer heat, family together, makeshift setup. Character building.”
“We have a perfectly good dining room,” Victoria said, following with a stack of plates.
“Perfectly good and currently ninety-one degrees.”
“Fair point.” She handed me the plates and went back upstairs for silverware.
Chase came down last, carrying Victoria’s pasta pot—rigatoni, red sauce, sausage—and set it on the table without comment. He’d showered recently. Hair still slightly damp at the temples, curling at the ends.
I noticed.
I was
