Nestore came down before the table was finished being laid. He counted the chairs himself, moved the second decanter where the light caught it, and poured his own wine, because this house has a rule about wine and the eldest does not get served.

He heard the car come up the drive. He heard the front door held open, Rosalba's voice going ahead of it into the hall, and one set of footsteps behind hers that stopped at the edge of the rug instead of walking across it. That stop told him more than a week of her stories had.

He had already given the evening its order: food, then wine, then the talking, and the talking would start with him.

He set the glass down.

He did not pick the glass back up. Around him the table went quiet on its own, and he let the quiet sit there, because a quiet table tells you who is nervous.