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gazed at the ceiling, softly lit by the streetlights, where Jamie had painted a mural years ago. He had offered to paint over it after Adam left, but Leo saw no reason to destroy Jamie's work or even remake it into something else. It was a dreamy bit of nonsense in Jamie's joyous style, musical notations like bubbles, words written in an unspooling ribbon --"Love," "Happiness," "Family"-- and four names, Leo and Adam, Frances and Ocean, in the center of the ribbon.
    Frances. Shit. He hadn't called Frances about Malcolm yet, and it was far too late to do it now. Leo turned on the bedside lamp, wrote, "Call Frances!" on the notepad he kept on the night table, and turned off the lamp again. He rubbed his eyes.
    Definitely getting old, he thought.
     

Chapter Three
    "I forgive you," Frances said for the fourth or fifth time, her arm around Leo's shoulders. Sunday brunch was one of their traditions, from when they were students and brunch would be ramen boiled on a hot plate and Cokes from the soda machine, to now with a grown son and their lives shifting yet again. "You had so much else to think about yesterday."
    "Even so, I should have called you. Here, taste this." He held a spoonful of skillet potatoes to her mouth. She blew on them to cool them and tasted obediently.
    "More pepper," she decided. "I think the real question is: are Emily and the children coming?"
    "I didn't talk to them. I'm not sure if Jack did." He sprinkled more pepper into the skillet and stirred the potatoes. "If they've forgiven him, maybe. But I'm not counting on them forgiving him."
    "Tragic," she said, shaking her head. "He never should have gotten married in the first place."
    "We have to make mistakes to learn from them," Leo remarked.
    Frances got a fork from the drawer and stabbed a chunk of potato. "How's Dunie doing?" she asked quietly and popped the potato into her mouth.
    "He's better. Don't you think he's better?"
    "I see him so rarely nowadays, it's hard to know if he's being sincere or if he's trying to assure me." She leaned against the counter. "So he's really doing okay?"
    "Yes," Leo said decisively. "Micah is taking good care of him. Speak of the devil," he added when Micah came into the kitchen.
    Micah froze, his eyes wide. "I swear I'm only here for some juice," he said, holding up his hands in surrender.
    "Of course, sweetie," Frances said and went to him for a hug and a kiss. "Do you want cranberry or orange?"
    "I'll get it. Why am I the devil?" He opened the fridge and took out a carafe of cranberry juice.
    "You're not," Leo said. "It's an expression. I mentioned your name and there you were."
    "Oh," Micah said as he poured juice into a glass. "As long as you were saying good things, it's okay with me. Were you saying good things?" He put the carafe away and noisily drank his juice.
    "Of course we were," Frances said. "We adore you." He beamed at her and she added, "How is Dune doing? Really."
    "Really?" Micah said, and his expressive face grew pensive. "He goes to therapy and he takes his antidepressants, and he'll go out if I pester him enough. Sometimes he even enjoys it."
    "But is he improving?" Frances said.
    "I think so," Micah said. "He's got a ways to go still, but he knows we all love him and support him and that helps a lot."
    "Good," Leo said, and the oven timer buzzed and Leo turned to take out the cinnamon rolls. "Is he writing?"
    "I don't know. He hasn't shown me anything if he is."
    "He hasn't shown me anything either," Frances said.
    "I'm sure all he needs is more time," Leo said. "Who wants to help me frost these?"
    "My job!" Micah said, pouncing on the bowl of maple-flavored frosting. Frances laughed and drifted out of the kitchen -- to talk to Dune, Leo assumed -- and Leo gave Micah a spatula for the rolls.
    "Are you guys doing okay?" he asked Micah quietly. "Do you need any money?"
    "We're doing fine," Micah said. "I make IT money and Dune doesn't eat much."
    "Just checking," Leo said. "I don't doubt your