The Appraiser's Dowry

The Caputos didn't book a venue. Adriano said his mother's back is bad, she doesn't like fuss, *let's just have a small dinner at the house.* I nodded. I'd already told Margaux to keep Sunday clear.

I owe Linus half my life. He says marry. I marry.

The Caputo brownstone smells like reheated lasagna and Glade plug-ins. Plastic hydrangeas on the mantel. Six cold antipasti on a folding table — one of them is supermarket olives still in the deli cup. Donatella scans me the second I'm through the door, but she's not looking at me. She's looking past my shoulder at the porter wheeling in the trunk.

*"You brought it,"* she says.