"Hat too," Daniel said gently.
Toby removed it and held it against his stomach. Elise took the hat and glasses without looking at them and placed them beside the bag. Coral leather. Brass clasp. A small scuff near the zipper that spoke of real use, not display. Not Elise's. She had never owned anything that color. She preferred muted things — cream, charcoal, the quiet greens of forest walks.
"Go wash your hands for dinner," she told Toby. "We're having the pasta you like."
"But Dad was going to tell—"
"Hands," Elise said.
Toby glanced at Daniel, seeking alliance, and found only a nod that meant do as your mother says. He went down the hall, sneakers soft on the pine floorboards. A door closed. Water ran.
Elise turned fully to her husband. The grocery bags waited on the counter like unfinished sentences. Outside, wind moved through the pines, and a thin curtain of snow drifted past the glass.
"Well?" she said.