Augusta was right. When everyone flew into the dining room, Nick Flemming was standing on the other side of the table, in front of one of the chairs, waiting to greet them. Ingmar was eating some kind of doggy biscuit that Nick had brought with him for the purpose of subduing him. Nick was wearing a light-blue guayabera, his gray hair slicked back.

“You look like a Puerto Rican barber,” Augusta said breathlessly.

“That’s racist,” Atty whispered.

“I’ve missed you,” Nick said to Augusta.

“Screw you,” Augusta said.

And then Nick Flemming made a gesture like he’d studied dance, or like, at the very least, he’d raised daughters who’d studied dance. (All the Rockwell girls had studied dance.) His arm swept out very slowly. His eyes teared up. “Look at my daughters.” His eyes fell on Atty. He whispered, “And my grandchild.”

And then he fell back into his chair like the backs of his knees had been hit by a bat, and, just like that, he was seated. The table was set for six. The plates stared up blankly. Ingmar nosed his empty hand, ready for another treat.

Jessamine cut through the dining room to get to the kitchen.

Teddy appeared in the door frame and said, “Hello. I’m—”

“This is Teddy,” Ru jumped in.

The girls took little notice of him, and Nick only glanced at him, giving a perfunctory, “Nice to meet you.”

Teddy nodded but kept quiet.

Jessamine bustled in, setting an extra place for Teddy.

“I hope I’m no trouble,” Teddy said.

No one assured him he wasn’t. Ru wanted to but stopped herself. The comment hung in the air.

Liv wasn’t even all that interested in Teddy, not in the presence of her father. She was struck by her father’s full head of hair. She decided that if she were a son not a daughter this would be a great relief to her. She thought he looked fit and, as she had an eye for wealth, she figured he’d done well but wasn’t showy about it. She wasn’t emotional as much as she felt giddy, and the giddiness reminded her of being a little strung out, which made her feel like she had to fight such associations and so she felt tired. She said, “I picked a pretty time in my life to kick Klonopin.” It had been the toughest to let go of, Xanax had proved a pitiable substitute, and she was now hoarding her Valium, saving her antiques for a very rainy day.

Esme felt completely uprooted by the sight of her father. He was shorter than she’d expected. There was something around his eyes that was familiar in Atty. She folded her arms, gripping them to reaffirm that she had nerve endings, which reaffirmed her existence.

It still wasn’t clear what Augusta might do next. She seemed coiled, ready to strike. She said, “You already know Teddy. He’s the boy who made our lives a misery when Liv was a teenager in love. Then Ru went and wrote that fictional book that was clearly not all fictional.”

“Trust Teddy Wilmer,” Nick said, then he turned to Ru and preempted. “I hope that’s okay. It was available to the public.”

“You know my work,” Ru said, surprised. Sure, it was kind of a breach of their agreement, but he could keep up with her work without interfering, right?

“Of course he knows your work,” Esme said. “He knows everything. That’s the problem!”

“What did you think of it?” Ru asked even though she knew she shouldn’t.

“I noticed the absent father figures, and I felt bad about that.”

“Let’s not get maudlin,” Liv said. “Self-actualization comes when someone has the courage to examine their own life—not other people’s. Plus, it wasn’t realistic. That’s not how it happened. Right, Teddy?” His name felt so familiar in Liv’s mouth that she wanted to say it over and over.

“Some essence of it seemed true,” Teddy said.

“Really?” Liv said. “It all rang false to me, personally.”

Ru didn’t care whether it was realistic or not. She wasn’t even really stung by her sister’s comment. Instead she was simply struck by her father’s physical presence—the all of him. She remembered him most clearly in small parts from their conversation in the bar—his eyes, his hands, the stupid school pin he’d worn on his shirt. She remembered how he was so proud of her. He smiled so hard that his cheeks were shiny and his eyes were wet with tears. At one point, he looked down at his drink, swirled it with his finger so that the ice cubes clinked, and said, “You’re the most like me, of the three girls, you know it?”

Esme was the one to drive to her point. “You owe me,” she said to her father. “And the debt is so deep you can never, ever repay it.”

“She’s right, Nick,” Augusta said.

“You think I’m right?” Esme said. Her mother never openly agreed with her.

And it felt like the entire family had always been barreling to this moment. It was inevitable that they would find themselves here—in just this way. Each of them somewhat shattered, full of longing, expecting something for so long but never knowing what form it would take. Here it was. At long last. Their father, Augusta’s husband, the real man, returned to them, alive and whole.

“Would you believe that I had good intentions?” Nick said.

The girls looked at one another as if they could only answer as a unified front.

“You were there, Augusta.” He reached out and grabbed the edge of the table. Ingmar standing steadfast at his side, already won over. “Right from the start. I did have good intentions.”

“You could have given it up,” Augusta said. “You could have walked away and made a family with us.”

Nick leaned back and shook his head. “It had me already. It had me.”

There was only the sound of breathing—labored breathing. It was coming from Esme. She balled her fists. “Did you kill Darwin Webber? What did you do to him?”

“Jesus!” Nick said, tilting the chair back. “He’s a cabinetmaker. High-end. The man charges a shit-ton and has a summer house on Long Island. He just changed his name.”

“To what?”

“Something simple. I can’t remember.”

Esme glared at her father. “Remember it.”

“Uh, Parks, I think. Bob or Bill. Or Rob. Rob Parks. Parks.”

“What town in Long Island?” Her voice was gravelly and low.

“Um, that one…you know, where The Great Gatsby is set…”

“East Egg?” Atty said. She didn’t think of herself as very pretty, and so she wanted to prove to her newfound grandfather that she was at least smart. “Or West Egg.”

“No, the real place,” Esme said. “Ru, you’re the writer! Where was it?”

“Orgiastic,” Liv said, noting the controversial word on the final page of The Great Gatsby, a bubble from some educational moment that rose to the surface and popped. It seemed to catch Teddy Whistler’s attention. The two exchanged a look. (Teddy Whistler had made her orgasm in his neighbor’s aboveground pool.)

“Great Neck?” Ru said. “I think it was in Great Neck. He and Zelda had a place there.”

“Great Neck?” Esme said, glaring at her father. “Was it Great Neck?”

“Yes,” Nick said. “Great Neck, for the love of God. Great Neck!” And then he pounded on the table and shouted, “We’re all in the same room! For the first time! My God, can I—” He pressed the fingers of one hand together and lifted them as if holding something precious. His hand trembled in the air. “Can I enjoy that? Can I be allowed to enjoy it?”

“No,” Augusta said.

It was quiet.

Teddy Whistler started to back out of the room as gently as he could. “Excuse me,” he whispered.

“No,” Esme said. “No one leaves.”

And he stopped moving, except for his eyes, which searched the others for some counterindication. None came.

Jessamine walked into the room holding a piping-hot lasagna with oven mitts, and took control of the situation by making a simple announcement, one she’d made a thousand times before in this house. “Dinner is ready!”

Augusta latched on to its ordinariness and said something she’d said thousands of times. “Sit down. Let’s eat.”