Griffin opened Henry’s present first. I found it incredibly thoughtful. Henry gave Griffin a beautifully engraved sterling silver shaker and jigger. On the shaker was etched out in block letters “Griff,” what Henry always called him. On the jigger were Griffin’s initials: GEH—Griffin Eugene Hardwick. Griffin was touched. He was more emotional and sensitive than any of us.

Henry and Hank gave me a beautiful silk scarf and a silk blouse. The blouse was white and tailored and would go with everything in my closet.

From the looks of Griffin’s present, he was giving me a painting too. Eagerly I tugged at the paper. It was a framed article about me in New York Magazine, about being a visionary and being named 40 Under 40. Now I was the one who was touched.

“You’re always lording your big accomplishment over us. I figured if you had it framed, you could just point to it in your office and save yourself a lot of conversation.”

He and Henry had earned some major prestigious awards. That wasn’t the real reason at all. He was proud of me and couldn’t say it. And then, out loud, I said, “This would be truly great if I actually had an office of my own. I haven’t made it like you two big shots. Not yet anyway. But I’m working on it. You know I love it. You knew I would.”

He nodded in false modesty.

After Griffin and I collected our gifts, we all went back to Griffin’s to get ready for Christmas lunch. As per our usual, it was served around two-thirty.

Watching Griffin and Henry in the kitchen was like watching synchronized swimmers. They did things in tandem. Seamless. Like a well-oiled machine or a lovely old married couple. I would never be unmoved seeing them together. Henry had gone by and picked up Daddy, and I watched my father play with his grandson whom he thought was Henry. Little Hank had folded into “my men” as effortlessly as Henry blended egg and sugar for one of his decadent cakes. Occasionally, Daddy would reach out and grab my right hand, squeeze it, and bring it to his lips.

“Love you, Annie.” I knew the moment the words left his lips they were meant for my mother, but they landed on my heart just the same. In some ways, Alzheimer’s had given me a glimpse of a father I wished I had known. A glimpse of my mother too. I let my hand linger until he let go.

“Love you too,” I said, having no idea what terms of endearment my parents exchanged with each other. We both watched Henry and Griffin cooking.

“Guess what they call Henry down at the restaurant,” I said.

Henry looked up, not knowing what was going to come out of my mouth.

“They call your son ‘eye candy,’” I said, as Henry mouthed the word “thanks.”