Chapter 1

"—and she calls herself the famous one."

Petra's voice cut through the clatter of plates and the low murmur of the room, landing on the corner of the table where the wooden high chair sat like a tiny throne. My daughter, June, blinked up at the sound, her rose-pink sleep suit bunching around her wrists, her dark eyes wide and unimpressed.

I kept my hand on the tray of the high chair, thumb rubbing a smooth circle into the wood. "She's nine months old, Petra. She doesn't know what famous means."

"Oh, she knows." Petra's ash-blonde bob swung as she tilted her head, the dark roots catching the candlelight. She'd arrived late, as always, dropping a bottle of red wine on the counter with a thud that made our mother flinch, complaining about the driveway ice, the parking, the cold. Then she'd spotted June in the high chair and her whole face had rearranged into something that looked like a smile but wasn't. "She's the first grandchild. The legend. The one who made our mother actually leave the house to buy a wooden high chair." She gestured at the chair with her wineglass. "I never got that treatment."

Margaret, our mother, kept her eyes on the serving spoon in her hand, the silver trembling just slightly as she scooped mashed potatoes onto my plate. She was wearing the cream silk blouse she only brought out when she wanted the evening to feel like a postcard, the gold brooch pinned at her collar like a small shield.

"Petra," Margaret said, her voice soft and measured, the way she'd said it a thousand times. "Not tonight."

"Not tonight what? I'm complimenting her." Petra smoothed the burgundy wrap dress over her broad shoulders and settled into her chair, the gold bracelets on her left wrist catching the light. "She's gorgeous. Looks just like Eli, actually. Lucky for her."

Across the table, my husband Eli didn't react. He'd been quiet all evening, three days home from a deployment that had stretched out like a held breath, and I'd caught him more than once just watching June — watching her breathe, watching her reach for the candle flame, watching her chew on a buttered roll. He had his sleeves rolled to the forearm, the hunter-green button-down still crisp despite the long day, and his jacket hung on the back of his chair like a promise.

He reached over now and brushed his knuckles against June's cheek. She grabbed his finger and shoved it in her mouth, and something in his face softened.

"Eli, how's settling back in?" Petra asked, not really asking. She was already reaching for the basket of rolls. "I heard you guys had a rough first night. Baby's still not sleeping through?"

"She's fine," I said quickly, the words coming out before I could stop them. "She just—"

"I offered to help, you know," Petra said, dropping a roll onto her plate with unnecessary force. "Weeks ago. I said, Petra can come over, give Nora a break, settle the baby. You never took me up on it." She looked at Eli, then at me, and her lips curved into that not-smile again. "I'm great with babies. Everyone says so."

My hand froze on the high-chair tray. Across the table, I saw Margaret's hand freeze too — right over the serving spoon, the potatoes dripping slowly back into the bowl.

"Thanks, Petra," I said, keeping my voice even. "We've managed."

"Managed." Petra laughed, a short sharp sound. "That's one word for it. You look exhausted, Nora. Really. The circles under your eyes are—"