Montgomery joined us at the dinner table, and Mrs. Harris brought out the wine. When Cynthia poured the first glass for our guest, he swirled it, first clockwise, then counterclockwise, and when he sniffed it I’m certain his nose crinkled and his lips puckered, if only for a moment until he could set his face to a more neutral expression.
“A unique vintage,” Mr. Carter said. “I’m not familiar with it.”
My father laughed. “It’s a Merlot, circa 1917.”
Mr. Carter wasn’t much more talkative toward my aunt or me during dinner than he had been when he first arrived, even if he did occasionally sneak a glance in my direction, which I pretended not to notice. My father was right. We weren’t fancy enough for a family like the Carters. While my father made a comfortable living at the Times, we we
