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didn’t want to talk about Oliver’s frustration with his work. Any job had its rough periods. Oliver hadn’t sold a major painting in over a year, but Alex didn’t need to know that. Oliver’s problems hardly mattered in light of all that Alex and Lacey were going through.
    Alex sat back down. His face had brightened now that they were talking of other things. He had finished the orange and reached for his coffee. He cocked his head and stared at her.
    â€œWhat?” she said.
    â€œIt’s funny,” he said. “You’re looking more and more like Lacey.”
    â€œYou mean now that I’m older?” Margot said. “You know how to make a woman feel good.”
    â€œYou know what I mean. You’ve changed, that’s all.” He shifted on the stool.
    Margot pushed her hair behind her ears. Her hair was longer now, and like Lacey, she often pulled it into a clip at the base of her neck. But her hair was dark, whereas Lacey’s was light brown, flecked with gold. Margot apparently took after her great-grandmother Suzanne, who was born in New Orleans, the odd French strain in the family. She was the smaller, darker, more intense version of her older sibling. Margot thought their resemblance had more to do with their outlook, as if the expressions on their faces reflected the way they both saw the world. Friends said they sounded similar too, particularly on the telephone.
    Alex stood and started to move about the kitchen, as if he needed to be busy. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a box of salt. “We’re going to take the girls on a trip this summer, a graduation celebration for the whole family. Lacey wants to go to Italy, show the girls some art, eat pasta. She talks about wanting to give them as many memories as possible. I think the change of scene would be good for her.”
    â€œThat’s a great idea.” Margot noticed the turkey again. “Do you think we should get this in the oven?”
    He turned and nodded. “Do we need to put anything on it besides salt and pepper? Lacey said something about rubbing it with olive oil. Or was it butter?” He stared down at the bird.
    â€œWhy don’t we do both?”
    As long as she accepted Alex’s optimistic prognosis, he would go back to being her sweet, caring brother-in-law.
    Margot went to the refrigerator to look for the butter. Every shelf was packed, but in an orderly fashion. She found the butter in the door next to the sour cream, pints of whipping cream, packets of cream cheese, and other dairy products of a similar size. Margot always marveled at Lacey’s organization and thought of the contents of her fridge in New York, a jumbled assortment of takeout containers, aging condiments, and hunks of poorly wrapped cheese that would crack with age. In periodic attempts to avoid wasting food, she would wrap leftovers in foil for the freezer. Oliver called them the UFOs, unidentified frozen objects, and now and then rounded them up for the trash bin.
    Margot put a stick of butter in the microwave to soften before spreading some on the turkey. Alex found a short brush for the olive oil and further anointed the bird after Margot’s ministrations. They were sprinkling on the salt and pepper when Lacey came into the kitchen.
    â€œYou’re both up early,” she said.
    Margot thought she heard a slur in Lacey’s speech. Maybe she was imagining it, or maybe it was the effect of the sleeping pill. Sun streamed through the kitchen windows. Margot hadn’t noticed that it had become light.
    Lacey smiled at Margot and came up behind Alex, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said. She pressed her face into Alex’s back and held on as if for dear life.
    Â 
    The Georges’ house smelled more and more like Thanksgiving as the day wore on: the roasting turkey, crushed sage, buttery pastry, and the nutmeg and cinnamon for the pumpkin