“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Wren flapped her arms. “Sam called me on my cell when I was driving back, invited Margaret and me over for supper, said, ‘Come around six.’ Here we are.” She sent her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the kitchen. “So where’s my supper?”

“Beats me. I was at the college, catching up on a stack of essays, when Sam called and told me the same.”

They turned to Maggie, eyebrows raised.

She hummed noncommittally. She could guess Sam’s objective—and also the reason for Kate’s tantrum. But it was his news to share.

Thomas kneaded his forehead. “Want a drink?”

“I want food, but I’ll temporarily settle for a drink.” She sat heavily at the island, smiled at Maggie, and patted the stool next to her.

A moment later, Sam hurried down the stairs. “Sorry about that.” He shooed his father away from the pantry. “I’ve got dinner, Dad. Take a seat. I’m just a little behind schedule. I see you got drinks, that’s good, that’s g—”

A door crashed open upstairs. “I hate you!” Kate screamed. The door slammed shut. This was followed by another slam. Then a third.

Thomas started speaking. A fourth slam interrupted him. They waited for a fifth. When it didn’t come, Wren whistled, a soft sound of awe. “Feisty.”

Thomas stared aghast at his son. “What happened?”

He yanked a box of dried pasta out of the cupboard. “Kate’s a little miffed.” Olive oil, artichoke hearts, cured olives, and roasted red peppers—he transferred an armful of cans and jars to the island.

“Hate to see what she’s like when she’s really angry,” the aunt said.

Maggie took a shaky sip of iced tea. I’ve seen that, and it’s not pretty.

He smiled weakly. “Check out my sculpture, Wren. Tell me what you think.”

“Okay.” She picked up her Pepsi can and, like a person preparing to lug a heavy burden, collected herself off the stool.

Thomas trailed her.

In a sidelong way, Sam watched them cross the room. As soon as they disappeared into the workshop, he turned to Maggie, his eyes huge. “This isn’t going so well.”

“Kate’s not thrilled about Chicago?”

“I didn’t even mention Chicago at first, just sat her on my lap, opened up some websites I’d found, showed her a bunch of cool destinations—Lincoln Park Zoo, The Bean, Navy Pier, John Hancock Observatory. I figured I’d, you know, butter her up at first…”

“Sweeten the pot?”

He sighed. “Didn’t work. She got mulish right away, let me rave and gush on my own, then announced, ‘I’m not going.’”

“Could she have overheard you talking about the school with someone?”

“I don’t think so. But maybe? I’ve been careful.” He pulled a sauté pan and the stockpot out of a lower cabinet.