He swung his feet off the table and jumped up for a hug, trying to lift me and failing—he wasn’t tall. I laughed as he gave up with a theatrical cough.

“I mean, greetings, young sister. Pleasure to see you again.”

I shoved him. “Why didn’t you text me you were coming?”

“Watch it,” he laughed, looking down at his arm. “I need these things. Yeah, this was a last-minute deal. And aren’t you usually at Wildwood?”

Nobody had told him. It wasn’t exactly newsworthy. But Oscar looked positively fascinated.

I shrugged. “Not this year.”

Win’s eyes went glassy. “Huh. Yeah. Breaks are good. What am I saying, you’re a kid, you’ve got plenty of—”

The doorbell rang, automatic subject change, thank Christ. Dad barreled down the steps to answer it. Before he reached the front door, keys jangled against the lock, and Alice slid inside holding bags of stacked containers from Citarella. Her black hair was pinned in a bun, curls spilling loose like ribbons.

“Did you just . . . ring the doorbell?” Win cocked his head.

Alice stopped and looked at us. “I don’t live here anymore.”

“This will always be your home.” Dad kissed her on the head while he pried the food from her arms.

“Especially since your place is, what, four blocks away?” Win chuckled. “Miss Independent.”

“Seventy blocks, thank you, I moved downtown.” Alice threw her hands in the air. “And lovely to see you too, nice to get the third degree the second I step inside! It’s been a day, I’ll have you know. We’re saddled with this crazy Frenchman as a guest conductor, we can’t make out a word he says, so rehearsal was like a Pinter play, and then the line at Citarella nearly made me turn straight around and give up. But I didn’t, because you requested it specifically.”

I glanced back at Oscar, his face carefully expressionless, and tried to telepathically communicate that, unlike Winston, my sister was not usually this extra—but then I processed what she’d said. Win’s visit wasn’t a surprise to her. He’d even put in a dinner order.

“Aw, you’ve missed me.” Win opened his arms.

She shoved him before hugging him tight.

“Obnoxious.” She turned to kiss me absently on the cheek. “Hey, Roo.”

Then she saw Oscar—and went bug-eyed. I hoped to God that wasn’t how I looked when I first met him.

She extended her hand. “Hello there, I’m Alice.”

“Oscar Bell,” he said quickly. “Such an honor to meet you. I have your recording of the Brandenburg Concerto No. 6, it’s one of my all-time favorites.”

“Oh! Well. Thank you very much. It’s lovely to meet you too.”

Then she turned to me with this weird, pointed look. I just as pointedly ignored her, gliding into the kitchen to ladle the takeout into ceramic bowls.