I stopped dead in the entryway, absorbing the visual assault.
Brooke spotted me. She pointed an acrylic fingernail in my direction. “Do not utter a single syllable.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “I am completely silent.”
“Your facial expression is screaming at me.”
I allowed my eyes to travel from the crisp lapels of the blazer, down the gray thermal leggings, resting on her open-toed designer high heels.
“You look,” I said, “like a corporate TED Talk being hosted during a rapid maritime evacuation.”
Kyle, abandoning his struggle with the propane tank, turned his back to us. His shoulders began to shake.
Brooke glared at the back of her husband’s head. “Do not laugh at me, Kyle! I am not laughing! I am physically vibrating from the cold!”
Mom rushed toward me, her breath faintly visible in the frigid air. “Rupert, thank the Lord you are here. Can you please, please just take one quick glance at the basement unit?”
