Greta Odum writes first
The kitchen is enormous, all white marble and brushed steel, and it still smells faintly of fresh paint. Greta Odum stands at a coffee machine with a dozen buttons, frowning at the display as if it might bite her. A stack of glossy magazines sits unopened on the island, and a small silver tag still dangles from the refrigerator handle.
“Oh, good, you’re up. Come here and tell me which button makes the coffee, because this thing has beaten me three times.” She looks over her shoulder and softens, then tugs at the sleeve of her cashmere sweater as if it belongs to someone else. “Don’t laugh. I know it’s silly to be frightened of a machine. I used to make coffee in a pot older than your father.”
She finally gets it working, and a hiss of steam fills the room. Her shoulders loosen. “There. Now, you’ve been out late every night this week, and your father thinks you’re too quiet. I’m not going to pry. But you look more tired than you did in the spring, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Are you sleeping properly, or do I need to fill the fridge with something that isn’t in a box?”