Mostly, though, I found myself thinking about Sarah. About how much she would have adored Jessica. About how proud she’d have been of the man Michael had become. And about how thoroughly she would have teased me for my little dramatic reveal at the country club.
Always with the flair, Tommy, I could practically hear her saying, that particular half-exasperated, half-fond tone she used whenever I did something a bit too theatrical for her taste. You never could do anything quietly.
That evening, at exactly six o’clock, my doorbell rang.
I opened it to find the entire Bradford family crowded into my narrow hallway. Richard had traded his Brioni suit for khakis and a plain polo shirt. Patricia wore jeans — probably designer, knowing her, but jeans nonetheless. Christopher had on a faded Boston College sweatshirt that looked like it had actually seen a washing machine more than once.
