Jane laughed. “You just noticed?”

“Like we don’t deserve some respect?” Angela reached for a chef’s knife and attacked a bunch of parsley, mincing it with machine-gun raps. “I blame myself. Should have taught him better. But really, it’s your father’s fault. He sets the example. No appreciation for me whatsoever.”

Jane glanced at Gabriel, who chose just that moment to conveniently escape the room. “Uh…Mom? Did Dad do something to tick you off?”

Angela looked over her shoulder at Jane, her knife blade poised over the mangled parsley. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do.”

“I’m not going to go there, Janie. Oh, no. I believe every father deserves his child’s respect, no matter what he does.”

“So he did do something.”

“I told you, I’m not going to go there.” Angela scooped up the minced parsley and flung it onto the bowl of gnocchi. Then she stomped to the doorway and yelled, over the sound of the TV: “Dinner! Sit.”

Despite Angela’s command, it was a few minutes before Frank Rizzoli and his two sons could tear themselves away from the TV. The halftime show had begun, and leggy girls in sequins strutted across the stage. The three Rizzoli men sat with eyes transfixed on the screen. Only Gabriel rose to help Jane and Angela shuttle platters of food into the dining room. Though he didn’t say a word, Jane could read the look he gave her.

Since when did Christmas dinner turn into a war zone?

Angela slammed the bowl of roast potatoes on the table, walked into the living room, and snatched up the remote. With one click, she shut off the TV.

Frankie groaned. “Aw, Mom. They got Jessica Simpson coming on in ten…” He saw Angela’s face and instantly shut up.

Mike was the first to jump up from the couch. Without a word, he scooted obediently into the dining room, followed at a more sullen pace by his brother Frankie and Frank senior.

The table was magnificently set. Candles flickered in crystal holders. Angela had laid out her blue and gold china and linen napkins and the new wineglasses she’d just bought over at the Dansk outlet. When Angela sat down and surveyed the feast, it was not with pride but with a look of sour dissatisfaction.

“This looks wonderful, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Gabriel.

“Why, thank you. I know you appreciate how much work goes into a meal like this. Since you know how to cook.”

“Well, I didn’t really have a choice, living on my own for so many years.” He reached under the table and squeezed Jane’s hand. “I’m lucky I found a girl who can cook.” When she gets around to it was what he should have added.

“I taught Janie everything I know.”

“Ma, can you pass the lamb?” called Frankie.

“Excuse me?”

“The lamb.”

“What happened to please? I’m not passing it until you say the word.”

Jane’s father sighed. “Geez Louise, Angie. It’s Christmas. Can we just feed the boy?”

“I’ve been feeding this boy for thirty-six years. He’s not going to starve just because I ask for a little courtesy.”

“Um…Mom?” ventured Mike. “Could you, uh, please pass the potatoes?” Meekly, he added again, “Please?”

“Yes, Mikey.” Angela handed him the bowl.

For a moment no one spoke. The only sounds were jaws chewing and silverware sawing against china. Jane glanced at her father, seated at one end of the table, and then at her mother, seated at the other end. There was no eye contact between them. They might have been dining in different rooms, so distant were they from each other. Jane did not often take the time to study her parents, but tonight she felt compelled to, and what she saw depressed her. When did they get so old? When did Mom’s eyes start to droop, and Dad’s hair recede to such thin wisps?

When did they start hating each other?

“So Janie, tell us what kept you so busy last night,” said her dad, his gaze on his daughter, studiously avoiding even a glance at Angela.

“Um, no one really wants to hear about it, Dad.”

“I do,” said Frankie.

“It’s Christmas. I think maybe-”

“Who got whacked?”

She glanced across the table at her older brother. “A young woman. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Doesn’t bother me any to talk about it,” Frankie said, shoving a chunk of pink lamb into his mouth. Frankie the Master Sergeant, challenging her to gross him out.

“This one would bother you. It sure as hell bothers me.”

“Was she good-looking?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Just wondering.”

“It’s an idiotic question.”

“Why? If she’s good-looking, it helps you understand the guy’s motive.”

“To kill her? Jesus, Frankie.”

“Jane,” said her dad. “It’s Christmas.”

“Well, Janie has a point,” snapped Angela.

Frank looked at his wife in astonishment. “Your daughter cusses at the dinner table, and you’re getting on my back?”

“You think that only pretty women are worth killing?”

“Ma, I didn’t say that,” said Frankie.

“He didn’t say that,” said his father.

“But it’s what you think. Both of you. Only good-looking women are worth the attention. Love ’em or kill ’em, it’s only interesting if they’re pretty.”

“Oh, please.”

“Please what, Frank? You know it’s true. Look at you.”

Jane and her brothers all frowned at their father.

“Look at him why, Ma?” asked Mike.

“Angela,” said Frank, “it’s Christmas.”

“I know it’s Christmas!” Angela jumped to her feet and gave a sob. “I know.” She walked out of the room, into the kitchen.

Jane looked at her father. “What’s going on?”

Frank shrugged. “Women that age. Change of life.”

“This isn’t just change of life. I’m going to go see what’s bothering her.” Jane rose from her chair and followed her mother into the kitchen.

“Mom?”

Angela did not seem to hear her. She was standing with her back turned, whipping cream in a stainless steel bowl. The beater clattered, sending flecks of white spraying across the countertop.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Gotta get the dessert started. I completely forgot about whipping the cream.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I should have had this ready before we sat down. You know your brother Frankie gets impatient if he has to wait too long for the next course. If we make him sit there for more than five minutes, next thing you know, he’ll turn on that TV again.” Angela reached for the sugar and sprinkled a spoonful of it into the bowl as the beater churned up the cream. “At least Mikey tries his best to be nice. Even when all he sees are bad examples. Every which way he looks, just bad examples.”

“Look, I know something’s wrong.”

Angela shut off the beater and, with shoulders slumped, she stared at the cream, now whipped up so thick it was almost butter. “It’s not your problem, Janie.”

“If it’s yours, it’s mine.”

Her mother turned and looked at her. “Marriage is harder than you think.”

“What did Dad do?”

Angela untied her apron and tossed it on the counter. “Can you serve the shortcake for me? I’ve got a headache. I’m going upstairs to lie down.”

“Mom, let’s talk about this.”

“I’m not going to say anything else. I’m not that kind of mother. I’d never force my kids to choose sides.” Angela walked out of the kitchen and thumped upstairs to her bedroom.

Bewildered, Jane went back into the dining room. Frankie was too busy sawing into his second helping of lamb even to look up. But Mike had an anxious look on his face. Frankie might be thick as a plank, but Mike clearly understood that something was seriously wrong tonight. She looked at her father, who was emptying the bottle of Chianti into his glass.

“Dad? You want to tell me what this is all about?”

Her father took a gulp of wine. “No.”

“She’s really upset.”

“And that’s between her and me, okay?” He stood up and gave Frankie a clap on the shoulder. “C’mon. I think we can still catch the third quarter.”