Then she hugged Michael.
It was a long hug. Both arms. Her face pressed against his neck.
“I missed you guys,” she said. Looking at him. Not at me.
Tom came out onto the porch behind her. He was wearing an apron that said KISS THE COOK. He smiled at me and waved.
“Hey, Jenna,” he said. “Glad you made it. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Thanks for having us, Tom.”
He looked at Rachel, still hugging my husband in the driveway. His smile stayed on his face. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
Dinner was just the six of us that first night. The big party with the rest of the family was the next day.
Tom made lasagna. It was really good. He’d made the sauce from scratch, from his
grandmother’s recipe. He told us about it, a little shyly, when we sat down. How his grandmother came from a little village in Italy and never wrote anything down, and it took him three years of standing in her kitchen watching her to learn it.
“That’s so sweet,” I said.
“It’s just sauce,” Tom said, but he looked pleased.
The kids ate at the kitchen island with their plates and a movie on the tablet. The grown-ups sat at
