“Sam came over last night for dinner. He met Lucia officially.”
Claire set her coffee down.
“How did it go?”
“He brought her flowers, like separate from mine, a little bouquet with daisies and a card that said nice to meet you. It didn’t feel like he was trying too hard or trying to be David. He was just being himself.”
“And Lucia?”
“Well, Lucia was Lucia. She asked him six questions in the first ten minutes, including what his stance was on climate change and whether he thought pineapple belonged on pizza. He answered all of them. He said he was against pineapple on pizza, but he respected those who disagreed, which Lucia said was the correct and diplomatic response.”
Claire smiled. She could picture it. Lucia at the kitchen table, David’s eyes sharp in evaluating, Sam sitting across from her with his kind face, being interviewed by a sixteen-year-old who had the intensity of someone interviewing him at a congressional hearing.
“So did she like him?”
“She said, and I’m quoting, ‘He’s not weird. His shoes were clean, and he didn’t talk about himself the whole time.’”
“Well, that’s high praise from Lucia.”
“That’s the highest praise Lucia has ever given anyone since her eighth-grade English teacher, and she still sends that woman Christmas cards.” Nina was quiet for a moment. “But here’s the part I need to tell you. After Sam left, Lucia went to her room. I thought she was fine. I mean, she seemed fine. Then I walked past her door, and I heard her crying.”
Claire’s chest tightened.
“I knocked,” Nina said. “She didn’t answer. I opened the door. She’s sitting on the bed holding her photo of her and David from the mantle. You know, the one from the beach where she’s on his shoulders and they’re both laughing hysterically.”
Claire knew the photo. She had seen it every time she visited Nina’s house. David in board shorts, Lucia, tiny and grinning, the Atlantic surf behind them.
“I sat next to her,” Nina said, “and she said, ‘I like him, Mom. That’s why I’m crying, because I liked him. And I feel like he’s replacing Dad. And I know that’s not what’s happening, but it felt like it.’”
“So what did you say?” Claire asked.
“I told her the truth, that nobody could ever replace her dad, that Dad is permanent. He’s in her eyes, and he’s in Elena’s cooking and in that mole recipe and in the boots sitting by the back door. And that liking Sam doesn’t mean that she’s losing Dad. It means she’s got room for more people, and Dad would have wanted her to have the room.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Okay.’ Then she said, ‘Can he come back for dinner next week? I’d like to ask him about his garden.’”
Claire laughed. “She’s incredible, Nina. She’s David’s kid through and through.”
Nina paused for a moment.
“Elena met him too, last week. I didn’t tell you because I was waiting to see if Elena would say something awful.”
“And did she?”
“She made him sit in her kitchen for an hour and a half. She fed him three courses, asked about his mother, his church attendance, and whether he knew how to change a tire. Then she walked him to the door and said, in English, because she wanted to make sure he understood, ‘You are not my son, but you are kind to his wife, and that is enough.’”
Claire pressed her hand over her mouth.
“Then she called me an hour later,” Nina said, “told me his table manners were acceptable, but his haircut needed work. And would I please tell him that Elena knows a good barber?”
They laughed. They laughed the way they always did when Elena was involved, because she said things with love, but it was always hard to predict or contain the force of nature that was Elena.
Greg appeared on the porch behind Claire, holding a plate with two scrambled eggs, a piece of toast, and a small glass of orange juice. He set it on the table next to her coffee and said, “Breakfast,” and then went back inside.
Nina heard it through the phone.
“Was that Greg?”
