By seven o’clock, we had moved into the living room, where the air was warm and thick with the scent of Brenda’s vanilla candles.
David sat close to me on the sofa, his knees angled toward mine, while Arthur occupied the heavy leather armchair directly opposite us.
Between us, on the low maple coffee table, sat four matching ceramic mugs of black coffee that had already gone lukewarm.
The silence in the room was a physical presence, broken only by the occasional high-pitched chime of Brenda’s charm bracelet as she adjusted her apron.
She sat on the edge of the love seat, her knees pressed tightly together, looking from David to Arthur with a bright, fragile smile.
“So, Nora,” Brenda said, her voice rising to a cheerful pitch. “David tells us you enjoy gardening in the spring.”
“I try to keep a few tomato plants on the balcony,” I said, my voice lifting at the end in that quiet, questioning way. “But the wind from the lake makes it difficult.”
Arthur did not look up from his coffee mug, which he held with both hands as if to warm them.
