The kitchen clock chimed once for the half-hour, a sharp, metallic sound that seemed to linger in the corners of the room.
“I suppose we should,” I murmured, though my stomach tightened slightly at the thought of digging through Clara’s old desk.
He finished his coffee in one long swallow and stood up, smoothing the front of his flannel shirt. “I’ll let you get back to your chores, but think about that weekend trip.”
I watched him walk out to his car, his steps slow and heavy, the posture of a man carrying a grief too large for his shoulders.
The telephone on the kitchen wall rang at exactly eight o’clock that evening while I was sitting on the back porch.
“Mom, is Michael still hanging around there every night?” Rachel asked, her voice coming through the receiver in a quick, sharp burst before I could even say hello.
“He comes by after his shift at the hardware store,” I said, looking out at the dark yard.
“He is leaning on you too hard, Mom, and it has only been six months since Aunt Clara passed,” she said without pausing for me to answer. “You need to set some boundaries before he starts expecting you to cook his dinners too.”
“He is just lonely, Rachel,” I said, my hand drifting down to touch my bare ring finger again.
“Grief doesn’t give him a free pass to move into your pocket,” she said.
“He was her husband for thirty years,” I said.
“And he is a grown man who needs to manage his own household,” she said, her voice rising. “Are you sure he isn’t asking you for more than just company?”
I gripped the plastic receiver tighter, the plastic cold against my ear. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just be careful, Mom, because Marlene told me he’s been asking around town about your retirement pension.”
