We’ve been chatting about cocktails for the past hour, going back and forth and around and around as I cook a comfort food dinner of Ragù alla Contadina and also a vegan version of it. It’s as if we can’t make decisions about the smallest things but we talk about recent horrors easily. We decisively discuss running away and starting all over and we explore incarceration, disability and death in detail. But we can’t decide between wine and whiskey. We don’t know what we want.

“It’s weird when you can’t think of anything that might make you feel soothed.” Benton has said this repeatedly over recent days and it’s more an observation than a complaint. “Not that we don’t feel stressed on a regular basis but usually it doesn’t last this long. It’s not relentless. I have more empathy for people who feel like this all of the time. It’s no wonder they medicate with cigarettes and booze.”

“Medicating sounds good right about now.” I dribble unfiltered cold-pressed olive oil over pasta, tossing it with wooden spoons. “I’m not sure I remember feeling soothed it’s been so long.” I blend in fresh grated Parmesan Reggiano, crushed red pepper and the basil.

“I know how to soothe you.”

“Promises promises.” A second bowl of pasta is for Lucy and Janet, and I leave out the cheese. “As I said it’s been so long.”

“Well we can’t have that. Don’t get too sleepy tonight.” Benton finds glasses in another cupboard. “A red, maybe a Valpolicella would be civilized I suppose.” He goes to the wine cooler, opens the door and shuts it without selecting anything.

He returns to the liquor cabinet and illustrates exactly what my father meant about actions telling the truth, about people speaking with their feet. Benton sets two crystal tumblers next to a bottle of Scotch, Glenmorangie aged eighteen years. He pulls out the cork with a quiet pop.

“No worries about my being sleepy.” I stir crushed plum tomatoes into the sauce, and the kitchen is filled with the savory aroma of onions, garlic and fresh herbs from earthenware pots on the sunporch. “If anyone wants wine I recommend the Rincione. You can go ahead and open a bottle. It should breathe before Jill gets here.”

“She’ll drink the hard stuff I’m pretty sure,” he says and I hate the reminder.

“Let’s put a Freisa d’Asti on ice. Maybe we can pretend this will be a festive dinner full of pleasant conversations as opposed to an interrogation we’ll pay for by the hour.”

“Try not to be negative about her.”

“Oh I’m not negative. Just realistically unhappy about spending an evening with her.”

“She’s trying to help. She would do anything for us, Kay. I consider her a friend.”