When my brother's third car arrived in front of the gate on Memorial Day weekend, the string quartet had already begun tuning up near the pond.
I stood behind the barn doors, a notepad in my hand, watching the white fabrics flutter in the breeze and the waiters carry trays of iced tea onto the lawn. Everything smelled of freshly cut grass and roses.
and the butter from the caterer's rolls. Then I heard gravel crunching under the tires, and I knew exactly who had decided that my silence meant permission.
Derek got out first, exactly like last time, too relaxed, too self-assured, wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt as if he were arriving at a resort he owned. He tapped the roof of his SUV and smiled back … (read more…)
