The croissants were golden and flaky, and their hot pastry smell washed over everything. At the table in the downstairs dining room, just off the kitchen, sat five Floods: Frederick and his wife, Fiona, Flan, February, and Patch, who had his eyes closed and was still listening to music from the night before.
“How was St. Lucia?” Flan said to her mom. Flan was wearing her riding clothes, including her brown velvet helmet with the chin strap done up. They’d asked her repeatedly to take it off, but she said she liked to be prepared, because she planned to go riding with a special someone. She wouldn’t say who that was.
“What?” Fiona Flood asked.
“Weren’t you there?”
Fiona shot a look at her husband. Frederick was slathering a croissant with butter.
“Have some croissant with your butter?” Fiona asked, and frowned. “I was there, yes. For a few days, for a much-needed rest from your father.”
“Doesn’t anyone want to hear about how my job is going?” February asked. She’d come in from her night two hours before, at eight in the morning, but the elder Floods had been out in the garden, discussing what to do with the rosebushes. Retrench or pare back?
“What about it?” Frederick said.
“It sucks,” February said.
“This orange juice is fantastic,” Patch said. It was all he could think of to say. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his family, he just didn’t get them. Even his little sister Flan was slowly getting lost on him. She made a pouty face all the time, and it was confusing that she’d gotten so good-looking and was only in eighth grade.
He sipped the juice, which was fresh. The scrambled eggs had bits of salmon and chive flecked through them. Patch ate quietly, with his head down.
“We may be headed back up to Greenwich, midweek,” Frederick said.
Flan stared down at her plate and adjusted her helmet. She helped herself to more eggs. Of course February was only drinking coffee, black.
“How’s Zed doing?” Fiona asked.
But nobody said anything, because nobody really knew.
“This is the best coffee,” Patch said as he sipped at it. He didn’t like to drink a lot of coffee, because he didn’t like to be that awake, but he couldn’t think of what else to say. During the silence that followed, the entire family began to stare at him. He looked at his plate.
“What?” Patch said. He smiled at them, his crinkly smile that made everybody feel good and got them to leave him alone at the same time.
“How’s Mickey?” his mother asked. “I think we’re seeing the Pardos tomorrow night or the next for the symphony. Anything special we should know about?”
“Yes, how are your friends?” Frederick asked. Then he seemed to remember something, and got up and went back to the kitchen.
“Well,” Patch said. “Um. I think they had a tough week.”
“Why?”
“Um.” Patch looked at the hem of his khakis, at the freckles on his arm. He smiled. He thought, Graca. He wanted to see her, and desire washed over him. He’d told her he’d see her later, but what had he meant? He needed to see her now. He wondered how to do it.
“Mickey broke his arm,” Flan said.
“He slipped on some stairs at school,” February said. Both his sisters were staring at Patch, slight grins on their faces.
“What about Zed?” Frederick said on his way back into the room.
“Dad,” Flan said, “Zed is at Vassar.”
“We can still talk about him, can’t we?” Frederick asked. And suddenly all of the Floods looked confused. How was Zed doing?
“Let’s call,” Fiona said. “Who has his number?”
Just then the family dog, Fido, came running in. She’d been up in Greenwich. She was a big dog, a retriever mixed with a St. Bernard—floppy and excited. Patch dropped onto the floor to play with her while the family discussed calling their eldest son.
“Has anyone walked Fido?” Patch asked.
Nobody responded. Flan was hitting herself on the helmet with her riding crop. February was leaned so far back in her chair that it looked as if she were about to pass out. From his vantage point on the floor, Patch could see her fingering a cigarette. Frederick rubbed the sleeve of his orange cashmere sweater against his cleanshaven cheek.
“Perhaps we ought to drive up to Boston and see him?” Frederick said.
“Dad!” the two girls said.
“I know, I know, Vassar’s in Washington,” Frederick said. The family laughed, if not heartily.
“Let’s go, girl,” Patch said. He slipped a white leather leash onto Fido’s collar. The dog licked Patch’s ears. On the way out, Patch grabbed a jacket off the coat tree by the front door. It happened to be his father’s four-thousand-dollar Paul Stuart shearling coat, but Patch didn’t notice. He only thought, this feels soft.
Outside, the day was beautiful and cool. Patch began to walk Fido downtown. He didn’t know where he was going. Then he did. Graca.