The Slippage

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William had told the Kenners not to worry if they were a few minutes late, and he was foresuffering the moment when he’d have to reassure the Fitches that it was okay to be the first ones to arrive. He had always had an ability to put people at ease, which was why he came on board quickly whenever Louisa proposed that they host a party. It was a chance to see himself in the best possible light, and there were fewer and fewer of those with each passing year.

They were on the deck, chopping vegetables on the narrow table next to the sliding glass door that led back into the kitchen. “Countdown to Tom,” William said. There was a carrot that looked lost amid several stalks of celery, and he plucked it out, a rescue.

“Can’t wait,” Louisa said. She had mixed up three pitchers of punch: one red, one yellow-green, and a third that was an orange so chemically vivid that William wondered if anyone would want to drink it. “What should I call this one? It’s like a sunrise.”

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