Rain hit the tall windows of Aunt Betty’s Victorian like it had a personal grudge. It did not fall in any soft, poetic way. It attacked. Sheets of it slapped the glass so hard the panes trembled in their frames, and every gust of wind shoved a low groan through the old house like the place was warning me about something I had not yet learned to fear. The storm had rolled over Marin County just before dusk, turning Oak Street into a ribbon of reflective black and filling the gutters with rushing water. Inside, the kitchen glowed gold under the pendant lights. Copper pans hung above the island. Candles waited at the table. The beef Wellington rested on the board in front of me, steaming through its crisp lacquered crust, the smell of butter and mushrooms and thyme so rich it should have meant celebration.
I stood there in one of Aunt Betty’s old aprons, knife in hand, telling myself the knot in my stomach was excitement.