“HOW WAS SOCCER?” SILAS asked when Mickey came through the front door. He stood over the stove, stirring paella. Recently, Lily had been working late most nights at the gallery, even though it was left to her when her parents died and was run seamlessly by the primary curator, to whom she had nothing to prove. Silas guest taught at the local college’s business school, but the semester was over and he had given the final tests to his TA to grade, so he was officially on summer vacation, waiting for everyone to catch up. He heard Mickey kick off her sneakers and drop her bag on the staircase before she walked back to the kitchen.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, stepping up to the stove and putting her head under his elbow. He opened his arm and pulled her against his chest, keeping the spoon in the pot. Sometimes his daughter reminded him so much of Lily, he would forget, just for a second, who was who. Mickey looked more and more like her mother every day. She was getting closer to the age Lily and Silas were when they met—closer than he felt comfortable with. He kissed the top of her head, which was a different color from her mother’s, but not by much.

“What am I missing?” he asked, holding out the steaming spoon. Mickey touched her lips to the wood and scrunched her nose. She looked the most like Lily when she concentrated, Silas thought.

“Cayenne,” Mickey said.

“God, you’re good,” Silas answered, and nodded toward the cabinet. Mickey hitched herself up on the counter and pulled down the spice. She stayed there, her knees squared with his hips, golden hairs on her long legs. Legs like her mother’s, he thought. He searched her face, looking for something of his. He could hear himself in her voice sometimes, but he was hard to find in anything physical.

“How was soccer?” he asked again.

“Good.”

“Oh yeah?” Usually, she would only shrug or beg him to let her quit. “Good” was a whole new ball game.

“I think I made a friend,” Mickey said, dipping her finger into the pot and sticking it in her mouth. She nodded. “That’s better.”

“A friend, huh? No one as cool as your old man, though, right?”

He handed her the cayenne, and she twisted around to put it back on the shelf.

“She helped me out at practice.”

“With your footwork?”

“With some asshole.”

Silas raised his eyebrows at his daughter. “What asshole? Also, don’t say ‘asshole.’ ”

“Some kid was being an ass—was being a jerk,” Mickey said, swinging her legs a little, just enough to make a hollow sound on the cabinets below. “She stood up for me.”

“Do you need me to break some kneecaps?” Silas said.

Mickey smiled. “No, thanks. She pantsed him.”