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Piet and Toby had set up Beachwallet a year before, with some advice from Bill. The company was developing an app for young travellers to budget their holidays abroad, and to make payments in the necessary foreign currencies.

‘Is Dad investing?’ Brooke asked.

‘Toby won’t let him,’ said Alice. ‘He’d rather take money from evil venture capitalists instead.’

‘Why’s that, Toby?’ said Brooke, pausing her chopping. She seemed genuinely interested.

‘I suppose I’m just wary of mixing family and business.’

‘Dad would love to do it,’ said Alice.

Toby had been reluctant to take money from his new father-in-law only a few months into his marriage. He owed him enough already: although Toby and Alice split the mortgage payments equally on their one-bedroom flat in King’s Cross, it had been bought with a deposit from Bill. Accepting that had pained Toby, but it had seemed pig-headed to refuse.

From the beginning of their relationship, Toby had vowed that he wouldn’t become dependent on Alice’s wealth, on Alice’s father. It was a vow Alice had understood and respected. Between them, they had created a marriage of equals, something Toby was proud of, and he thought Alice was too. They both had serious jobs, they split the mortgage, they shared domestic chores, Toby intended to do his share when children came along.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his father-in-law’s business acumen. After working all over the world for a US multinational, Bill had settled in London and invested in and managed a series of smallish defence communications companies in Britain and the rest of Europe. He had made good money out of it, many millions, exactly how many millions neither Alice nor Toby knew. And he had also learned how to keep small companies afloat.

But Toby was hesitant about binding his wife’s family into his own precarious business affairs. It wasn’t just pride in avoiding hand-outs. It seemed risky for a reason he couldn’t quite pin down, something to do with a screw-up in one relationship leading to a screw-up in the other.

‘I can see why you might want to be careful,’ said Brooke.

Toby gave her a grateful smile.

Bill popped his head around the door. ‘Can you manage another one for dinner, Alice? I know you can. There’s no way you haven’t made enough food.’

Alice grinned sheepishly, surveying the piles of food scattered around the kitchen. ‘What do you think, Brooke?’

‘I think we’ll be OK.’

There was plenty of food.Despite the fact that there was turkey involved, it was slightly different to an English Christmas. No sausages, no bacon, mashed potato not roast. The stuffing seemed to have much more bread in it than its English equivalent, and there were Pennsylvanian vegetables: creamed dried sweetcorn, sweet potato and green beans in a mushroom sauce, which is where the Campbell’s soup had come in. The cranberry sauce had been smuggled into the country by Brooke. It had all sounded a little weird when Alice had first described it, but it was delicious, in Toby’s opinion. And there were unlimited quantities of a classy Puligny-Montrachet to wash it down.

They were crammed around the table in a dining room that wasn’t quite big enough for the nine chairs. Guth family silver glimmered in the cosy yellow glow of dim wall lights, and the same thick beam ran across the ceiling from the living room next door. Outside, the marsh lurked in the darkness, and the wind from the sea rattled the windows intermittently. Everyone was there, apart from Maya. No one was worried about this; Maya was always late. It would have been more concerning if she had shown up on time.

The conversation flowed like a warm stream around the family, washing over the newer members, like Toby and Justin, and non-family like Sam Bowen and Lars da Silva, drawing them in. Alice and Brooke teased Megan about her future career as a waitress in the Belgian cafe, Megan and Bill teased Alice about how she had almost worked over the Thanksgiving weekend, and all three sisters teased their father about everything.

The dog was involved, of course. He planted himself beneath Sam’s chair, his ears pricked as if listening to the conversation.

‘Rickover seems to like you,’ said Brooke.

‘He’s a nice dog,’ said Sam, fondling the animal behind its ears. ‘Named after the admiral?’ He glanced at Bill, who nodded.

‘I didn’t realize Rickover was an admiral?’ Toby said.

‘He set up the nuclear submarine programme,’ said Bill. ‘He insisted on interviewing every midshipman himself. Scariest half hour of my life.’

‘Then why did you name the dog after him?’ Sam asked.

‘Because Dad just likes telling admirals to sit,’ said Alice.

‘He was a fine man,’ said Bill.

‘And Rickover is a fine dog,’ said Brooke. ‘He definitely likes you, Sam.’

‘And I like him,’ said Sam.

‘Are you sneaking him turkey?’ Alice asked in her most inquisitorial voice.

Sam’s chubby cheeks coloured red. ‘Maybe.’

‘I hope your admiral was less easily biddable,’ Alice said.

‘I never tried feeding him turkey,’ said Bill with a laugh.

‘Is there a Mrs Bowen?’ Brooke asked Sam.

‘My mum?’ Sam said.

‘You know what I mean!’

Sam grinned. ‘Not yet. But soon.’

‘Soon?’ said Alice. ‘Are you engaged?’

‘Since last weekend. There’s an old Roman fort way up in the Pennines we both really like: she’s a historian too. We went for a walk up there on Sunday. That’s where I asked her.’

‘And she said yes?’ said Brooke, her eyes wide.

‘Of course she said yes, dummy,’ said Megan. ‘Otherwise they wouldn’t be getting married.’

Brooke ignored her. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Jasmine. Jazz.’

‘Nice name. Not as nice as Rickover, of course. Have you fixed a date yet?’

‘Not sure,’ said Sam, grinning. ‘We can’t decide whether to have it before or after the baby is due.’

This prompted a slew of highly personal questions from the three Guth sisters, all of which Sam answered with good humour. Toby could see the tough truth-seeking historian wilting under the Guth charm offensive.

Toby was sitting next to the mysterious Uncle Lars. Although he must have been Bill’s age, he appeared ten years older. Short steel-grey hair bristled over the brown dome of his skull, and two deep lines cut downwards one on either side of a full sandy moustache. He was thin and wiry, and looked like he had had a hard life. Jail did that to you, Toby supposed.

‘Are you here on holiday?’ Toby asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Lars. ‘Primarily to see Bill, but I’m planning on going to London and maybe Bath or York. We served together on submarines, back in the day.’

‘I know. I was there when Sam was talking to Bill this afternoon.’

‘Oh, really?’ Lars looked surprised. ‘Did Bill tell him anything?’ he asked quietly. Sam was at the other end of the table, safely out of earshot.

‘No,’ said Toby. ‘A brick wall.’

‘That’s probably a good thing,’ said Lars. ‘Sam came all the way out to Wisconsin to speak with me a couple of weeks ago, and I didn’t tell him anything either. A wasted trip if ever there was one. I don’t understand why Bill invited him to dinner.’

‘You know Bill better than I do,’ said Toby. ‘He’s very hospitable.’

Lars grunted as he stabbed some turkey with a fork and pushed it into his mouth. ‘He is that.’

‘So you live in Wisconsin?’ Toby asked. ‘Is that where the Lars comes from?’ Toby was dimly aware that Wisconsin had been settled by Scandinavians.

‘That’s right. My mother’s family were Swedes from way back, but my dad came from Brazil. He’s passed, but my mother’s still alive. Barely. She’s in a home now, but I figure she needs someone to come see her. So I decided to move back.’ Lars looked straight at Toby with troubled green eyes. ‘After they let me out of jail.’