“He’s dead.” Tom lifts his shoulders, his hand wrapped around a mug of coffee. “What’s he going to do? Yell at us for talking about anything other than him?” Eliot says, “No, that’s just our dear, lovely, youthful grandmother.” He arches and lowers his brows in a sarcastic wave. While we were downstairs, she brushed past us at the spread of breakfast pastries as Tom had been expressing his hatred of honeydew.
