He didn’t come back down until six thirty. He unpacked some more things, looked through his father’s books, picking out an Ed McBain novel he hadn’t read before, one of the 87th Precinct books called Sadie When She Died. He didn’t think he’d be able to read, but he tried anyway. He kept thinking about how it had felt to hold Alice in his arms while she cried, the way her body had shaken, and the feel of her skin against his. He tried to stop himself from imagining the hug suddenly becoming sexual, one of her hands sliding down into his jeans, her telling him that it would be the only thing that would help her grief. He started the book, reading a page without understanding any of the words, then started again, and managed to get into it. He’d read half before he realized it was nearly six. He showered and went downstairs. There was music playing—a David Bowie album, the one with “China Girl” on it—and something was cooking in the oven.

Alice had changed her clothes. She wore a long dress, in a fabric that looked hand dyed. It was scoop necked and cinched at the waist. “What can I do to help?” Harry asked her.

She’d been assembling a salad and she jumped a little when he spoke. “Nothing, nothing,” she said. “No, actually, you can make us each a drink. Do you mind? A martini for me.”

Harry went to the side table in the dining room, where the booze was kept. It was obvious that Alice wanted some semblance of a normal evening, despite the fact that her husband was dead. Harry decided that it might be a good thing. He’d read a book this afternoon, so maybe life just needed to go on. And if Alice relaxed enough, then maybe she’d open up to him. He still thought she was holding something back.

He found a large bottle of Plymouth gin, his father’s favorite, and Harry, who’d watched his father drink his single, large martini every night at six on the dot, knew how he liked it. Shaken very cold, no vermouth, and served in a tumbler with three cocktail onions.

“How do you like your martini, Alice? Same as my father?”

“Yes, but with olives. And about half the size of the drinks your father used to make, please.”

Harry made the drink, got a beer for himself, then asked again if she needed any help and was told to take a seat on one of the stools around the island. There were snacks out—baby carrots with hummus, and crackers with port wine cheese.

“Your friend Paul is so nice,” Alice said, turning away from her salad, and sipping at her drink.

“It was great he came. He skipped graduation, you know?”