Two days after my call with Willow, the air in the penthouse smells like red wine, braised beef, and garlic blooming in hot olive oil.
Dad isn’t a complicated man when it comes to food. The club kitchen might run on grease, instant coffee, and white bread, but Dad's private palette has always been grounded in simple, heavy comfort.
Slow-cooked pot roast with seared chuck, thick cuts of carrots, pearl onions, and a rich, dark gravy cooked down until the meat falls apart at the touch of a fork. It’s the meal my mother used to make for him on Sunday nights before she got sick.
At seven o'clock sharp, the sharp, distinctive chime of the private elevator rings through the foyer.
I turn down the gas burner, setting my wooden spoon on a ceramic tray, and walk out to meet him.
The elevator d
