Amy declared. “He makes everything in the microwave.” As far as Eliza could see, this was not true. Conor had used the microwave to thaw out some frozen chopped beef, but now he was browning the meat in a pan on the stove. He’d opened a jar of marinara sauce and filled a pot of water to boil for pasta. Not exactly a gourmet feast, but several steps away from zapping a pre-fab meal. Eliza stood at the sink, rinsing a head of romaine before she tore some of it into a salad bowl. Amy had been tasked with setting the table. There had been some debate about whether to eat in the kitchen or the dining room—Conor had voted in favor of the kitchen, but Amy had countered that she and her father never ate in the dining room and tonight they had an excuse to do so. Her argument won, and she’d made a huge production of folding the dinner napkins into pockets to hold the silverware, and arraying the table with china plates from the glass-fronted hutch. Eliza wondered when Amy and her father had last dined in the stately room.
