On an evening when Alexandra promised tomorrow there would be a surprise, they went to Robert and Cassandra’s. It was a temperate night. It was Sunday dinner. The sun pinked high-rises they could see from the apartment window, and there was a frantic milling in the streets. It was the first time in a long time Alexandra had seemed like the woman he met.
She followed Cassandra into the living room. The children went to color with Robert at the table, and Jeremy made drinks in the kitchen. “Pouring drinks, you mean,” Alexandra called over her shoulder. “And slowly, I might add. We’re parched.”
“Slow and steady,” he said.
“And sober,” Alexandra said.
Jeremy stood quietly with wineglasses in his hand. She was very beautiful standing by the couch in the living room. She made the air soft, and he passed a glass.
“Was it worth the wait?” he said.
“Perfectly seasoned,” she said, “don’t you think, Cassandra?”
“Girl, we know all about Jeremy’s family recipes,” Cassandra said. “And it is that traditional good stuff.”
They did not dwell on the dead who were news. They teased Robert. They offered their hands to be slapped by Wally, by Han, now school age. They spoke of the fine-wine atmosphere, and when a new bottle was removed from a shelf and opened, they spoke of the fine whiskey atmosphere.
When it was far beyond bedtime, Jeremy carried Han down the stairs. Emerging from an overhang, they saw that a storm had not come. Glowy, ambiguous weather pressed down on the pavement, and the street was dark with minor damp.
“Are we home yet?” Han asked.
“Almost.”
Alexandra stopped in the street. “Don’t lie to him,” she said.