I ushered them into the living room—the space David and I had decorated together over forty years of marriage. The mahogany coffee table we’d found at an estate sale in Connecticut, the Persian rug from our anniversary trip to Istanbul, the Tiffany lamp that had been his mother’s. Taylor’s eyes lingered on each piece, and something flickered in her expression that I recognized but couldn’t quite name. Not appreciation. Something else. Calculation.
“Coffee’s ready,” I said. “And I made those lemon bars you like, Avery.”
“Mom, you didn’t have to do that.” But he took three, I noticed.
For a moment after we sat down, nobody spoke. Avery glanced at Taylor. She nodded almost imperceptibly, some silent communication I wasn’t privy to.
“So,” I said, unable to bear the silence any longer, “what did you want to talk about?”
Avery set down his coffee cup carefully, like a man about to deliver difficult news. “It’s about Sophie, Mom.”
My heart lightened. “Sophie? How is she? I haven’t seen her in—goodness—must be three weeks now.”
“She’s great,” Taylor cut in warmly. “Finishing her last semester at Columbia Business School. Top of her class, actually.”