“She is only trying to keep things in order,” I said, though the words felt thin even to me.
“Some secrets do not stay buried in the Indiana soil, Ellen,” she said.
I stared at her, the spoon still balanced on the edge of my saucer.
“You always did prefer your silence to the truth, Ellen,” she added, her cane striking the floor one last time.
Before I could ask what she meant, she stood up, using the edge of the table to steady her frail frame, and walked toward the exit without looking back.
I sat alone with my cold tea, her words looping through my mind like an old tape.
The walk home was slower, the afternoon sun dipping below the tree line by the time I reached Maple Street.
I stood on my small front porch at six o’clock, the key to the cottage heavy in my sweater pocket.
At the end of the gravel driveway, a dark blue sedan sat idling, its exhaust forming small gray plumes in the cool air.
