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“We could adopt, I suppose. If I don’t get pregnant soon,” I said.

“Soon? It’s been years. When will you realize it won’t happen?”

He looked away for a moment and then turned back to me, his eyes smaller. He looked like he was about to cry, like a little boy who couldn’t go out to play.

“And adopt a baby? You say it so casually. What about my feelings? I’d like to have my blood passed on, too, you know. I am not excited about making someone else’s unwanted child the heir to my fortune, my heritage.”

“I’m sorry, Arden,” I said. I really did feel sorry for him now. “Let’s take a breath and give everything more thought. I’m not saying you’re wrong. Papa taught me that the best decisions come after they’re nurtured and turned around and around to check for cracks or dents in your thinking. Every decision is—”

“Yes, I know, like a birth. He said that so much that I felt like checking into a maternity ward.”

I smiled. “I’m making one of your favorites, grilled pork chops in plum sauce. Your mother used to make that. She taught me.”

He looked down at the papers and then began stuffing them back into the envelope. “I need a drink,” he said.

Sylvia came to the doorway. “Sauce is ready,” she announced, smiling from ear to ear.

“Sauce is ready? You let her make it?” Arden asked, astonished.

“She’s good at it, Arden. You’d be surprised at what she’s learned in the kitchen.”

“Might be poison, for all we know. I guess I need this just in case.”

He poured himself a hefty glass of bourbon. Then he looked at Sylvia, who was still standing there smiling at him. Her right cheek had a streak of plum sauce across it.

“Looks like she was finger painting with our dinner.”

“Oh, she just touched herself after handling the plums. Every cook gets a little messy.”

“Cook. Artist. Next she’ll be CEO of our company,” he said, and gulped his drink, his eyes still on her. “What happened with her art teacher?”

“I hired him. He’ll be here day after tomorrow. He’ll come three times a week at first, an hour each time, for twenty-five dollars an hour.”

“Twenty-five dollars? Are you crazy? That’s seventy-­five a week to babysit. You might as well open the window and toss the money out,” he said, and finished his drink.

“If it doesn’t help, we’ll stop it, but for now, she is happy about it, Arden. You know,” I added, “her name is on the estate Papa left, too. We hardly spend any of her money on her.”

“I know. I know plenty,” he said, and poured himself more bourbon. He looked at us both while he sipped his drink and then turned and headed for the stairs. “I’m going to wash up and get out of this monkey suit that I have to wear every day to be sure our business is a success and I can make enough money for you to waste.”

We watched him head up the stairs, pausing to sip his drink. Sylvia looked at me and then stepped toward the stairway, as if she expected she’d have to charge up and save him the way she had saved Papa from falling backward. But Arden continued on, his anger marching him the rest of the way.

“Let’s set the table, Sylvia,” I said.

Arden came down a half hour later. He did look refreshed and relaxed, but there was something else different about him. He wore the wry smile of someone who was carrying a secret full of self-satisfying irony. He opened a bottle of Papa’s prize red wine, which was to be used only for very special occasions, and poured a glass for each of us. We usually didn’t give Sylvia much alcohol of any kind. Arden knew why.

Once, years ago, Vera had gotten her terribly drunk. She’d thrown up over everything in her room—her bed, her rug, her desk. The reaction she was having terrified her, and she flailed about, crying and waving her arms. Vera was hysterical with laughter when I came upon them, and when Papa found out, he went into a rage and beat Vera with his belt until Aunt Ellsbeth stopped him by clinging to his arm so tightly he lifted her off her feet with every attempted swing.

I actually felt sorrier for Vera that day than I did for Sylvia, because Sylvia simply fell asleep after we bathed her and changed her into her nightgown. Vera was off in her room whimpering like a beaten puppy. Aunt Ellsbeth didn’t show her any sympathy, despite stopping Papa from beating her to death. She went to Vera’s room and told her she had gotten what she deserved. She didn’t even look after her welts. Some of them were bleeding. After Aunt Ellsbeth left, I went to see Vera. She was curled in the fetal position on her bed, shivering with pain.

“You need to wash those welts, Vera,” I said, “before they get infected.”

“Leave me alone. You’re happy this happened to me.”

“I’m not happy. You shouldn’t have done that to Sylvia, but I’m not happy to see you so beaten,” I said. I said it sincerely enough for her to turn and look at me.

“Okay. Go get me a warm washcloth and some antiseptic gel and some Band-Aids,” she ordered.

When she took off her dress, I saw how Papa had hit her around her waist and thighs. She lay back so I could wash every welt and put on the medicine and bandages where she needed them.