Emily’s blue ceramic coffee mug still had two inches of grey, mold-skinned liquid sitting at the bottom. I had not moved it from the counter in six days.
Claire, my younger sister, set a plate of cold, unbuttered toast on the wooden table. She tilted her head to the left, her eyes tracing the deep lines around my mouth.
“You have to eat something, Thomas,” she said.
I kept my eyes on the oak tree in the backyard, watching a single brown leaf detach and drift toward the grass.
“The ground is too hard for this time of year,” I said.
Claire pulled her grey cardigan tighter around her shoulders.
“The weather does what it wants. Eat the toast.”
I folded my hands neatly in my lap, pressing my palms together until my knuckles turned white.
“I was thinking about the porch light,” I said. “I forgot to turn it off this morning.”
“I turned it off,” she said, her voice dropping to that soft, coaxing tone she reserved for bad news.
She sat down opposite me and reached for the butter knife, then stopped.
“Arthur Vance called my house last night,” she said.
I rubbed my left ring finger, feeling the smooth gold band that felt far too loose now.
“Arthur is seventy,” I said. “He should be retired by now.”
“He said he needs to come by this afternoon,” Claire said.
“He was Emily’s attorney, Claire. There is nothing left to sign.”
“He was very specific, Thomas. He said it was about her estate.”
I did not answer her. I looked back out the window at the empty bird feeder swaying in the October wind.
We walked out to the backyard after the sun cleared the roofline. The grass was damp, catching on the cuffs of my trousers as we neared the fence.
Three weeks ago, we had stood by the dried rosebushes under a canvas canopy, and Emily had held my hand so tightly her fingernails left red marks in my palm.
“She looked beautiful that day,” Claire said, though she kept her eyes on the gravel path.
“She was tired,” I said. “But she did not want to postpone it.”
