Not in a million years would I have said no.

It smelled like baking pie crust, melted butter, and turkey all day—even in our house. The wind carried the smells of cooking into our window, and my stomach gnawed at itself.

Miss Dina had told us to come over at three, and I couldn’t even count on Elliot to entertain me until then because, no doubt, he’d been put to work.

I heard the lawn mower going, the vacuum running inside. And, of course, I heard the roar of football on the living room television, filtering from their house to ours. By the time we made our way over with wine and flowers at two minutes before three o’clock, I was nearly insane with anticipation.

Dad made a good living, and our house in Berkeley had every material possession we could possibly need or want. But what we could never buy was chaos and bustle. We lacked noise, and strife, and the joy of overstuffed plates because everyone insisted that their favorite dish be made.

Just inside their door we were pulled like metal to magnets into the madness. George and Andreas shouted at the television. In the easy chair in the corner, Mr. Nick blew exuberant raspberries on Alex’s tummy. Nick Jr. was polishing the dining room table while Miss Dina poured melted butter into the crossed tops of rolls to put in the oven, and Elliot stood over the sink, peeling potatoes.

I ran to him, reaching to take the peeler out of his hand. “I told your mom I would peel those!”

He blinked at me in surprise, reaching with a potato skin–covered finger to push his glasses up. I knew that helping her with dinner was just a ruse—after all, I’d been smelling the food all day—but for whatever reason, I was unable to give it up.

The thing is, at fourteen I was old enough to understand that many of the people who had lived in Healdsburg for many years would not have been able to afford to live in Berkeley. Although Healdsburg had been taken over by Bay Area money and the wine craze of the nineties, many people who lived here still worked for hourly wages and lived in older, mildly soggy houses.

The wealth here was what was inside: the Petropoulos family and the warmth and the knowledge—passed down through generations—of how to cook a meal like this for a family of this size.

I watched as Miss Dina gave Elliot a different job—washing and chopping lettuce for the salad—which he did without complaint or instruction.

Meanwhile, I hacked at the potatoes until Miss Dina came in and showed me how to peel them more slowly, in long, smooth strips.

“Nice dress,” Elliot said once she’d left, his voice laced with delicate sarcasm.

I looked down at the frumpy denim jumper I wore. “Thanks. It was my mom’s.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh, my God, Macy, I’m sor—”