"I'd love to meet her, Max. Of course. Of course." She is already planning it. "We could do a nice Sunday dinner. Something low-key. Nothing scary. Or a lunch. A lunch might be lower pressure."
"I'll ask her."
"Take your time, sweetheart. Whenever she's ready."
"Yeah."
Richard, mildly, eyes still on his mail: "We were thinking of doing a night out soon, anyway. The six of us. Somewhere nice—Bertelli's, maybe. Reservations, jackets, the whole thing. It's been a while."
"Oh?"
"Atlas mentioned he'll be traveling more in the next few weeks—some kind of long project he's putting together—so I thought we should do it before he gets pulled under."
"Atlas is traveling,” I say, trying to sound casual.
"That's what he said. He didn't elaborate. He never does."
Margot, pouring a refill: "Always so mysterious, that one."
I file it.Atlas traveling. Long project. He hasn't told me yet. He will when he wants to I guess.
"A night out sounds nice," I say.
"With Wren, if she's up to it." Margot, hopeful again.
"...maybe. I'll see."
"No pressure."
"Yeah."
We drink our lemonade. The light slants further. After a while Richard puts his mail down for good and looks at me. "I'm glad you came back happy, Max."
"...yeah."
"I am too." Margot's hand on my forearm. Just there. Not squeezing. "We were worried, sweetheart. The end of the spring was hard on you."
"I know."
"You're doing better."
"I am."
"Good."
She kisses the top of my head as she passes behind my stool to put the lemonade pitcher back in the fridge. The kitchen settles into its own quiet.
I push back from the island.
"I'm going to go unpack."
"Mm. Take your time, sweetheart."
"Yell when it's dinner."
"I will."
I head for the stairs. Bannister under my hand, gold light through the long west window.
