She tugged down the dress’s layered skirt. I managed a smile, but her eyes stayed locked on the outfit.

“It was an aspirational purchase,” she admitted, fussing with it. “Sale at Cravat, me deciding to lose fifteen pounds, which . . .” She glanced at herself, shrugging. “If it didn’t happen after running five miles a day for seven weeks, it’s not in the cards. I’ve made my peace with it. But last night I thought of you, your coloring—”

“I love it, Jules.” I turned to hug her. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”

She grinned, adjusting her own gorgeous blue sheath. “I’m getting into this stylist thing. You’re my first socialite client!”

“I’d have to socialize to become a socialite. This is a one-night engagement.”

“Can’t you reconsider? It would be for a good cause.”

I laughed as she batted her lashes. “You’re going to be wildly successful with or without me.”

She shrank. “You know I’m pretty much kidding—”

I grabbed her shoulders. “Enough of this I am fated to work retail bullshit. You’re talented!”

Her eyes slid from mine.

I grabbed her tighter. “Nope. Say it.”

She sighed. Squirmed. “I’m talented.” She looked at me. “I’m talented. Dammit, I am! I’m good at this.”

“There, you’re a stylist now. Own it or, so help me God, I will own it for you.”

Jules grumbled. But she also tugged my dress once more, as if for luck.

As we passed Dad’s room, I saw him sitting up in bed, propped by pillows, surrounded by a moat of flowers. He’d cheerfully bullied his way out of the recovery ward this morning, mere hours after surgery. What the maestro wanted, the maestro got.

Alice hovered over him, poking at an iPad.

“Feeling okay?” I called out.

Dad stared at the screen. “Just trying to get the boys on the, ah, video chat.”

The doorbell rang and, with a quick hi to Jules, Alice trotted downstairs to answer.

Dad’s Skype ringer started to bloop. He adjusted himself in bed, stifling a groan.

I hurried to offer a hand, but Alice called up the stairs, “Don’t bother, he wants to suffer. Otherwise he’d still be at the hospital!”

“I’m not suffering!” He swished his hand. “I’m better than ever.”

Jules motioned to his chest. “You’re bionic now.”

“Call me Metal Man.”

Ordinarily we might have laughed at the pop culture gaffe, but his smile seemed to be withering at the corners.

He’ll heal, I promised myself. He’ll be different, but he’ll be okay.

And we’d heal too. We’d never be that perfect diorama again—Martin Chertok and Daughter—but reality brought with it a new kind of bond. It hurt more. It meant more too.