It was a forty-one dollar dinner receipt from a local bistro, dated for the previous Thursday when he said he was in Raleigh.
The physical receipt crinkled in my hand as I stood alone in the dark laundry room.
I smoothed the receipt flat, tucked it deep into my pocket, and waited for the morning.
By three the next afternoon, the dining room was filled with the heavy, clean scent of polished oak floor wax. I had spent the morning working the paste into the floorboards on my knees, trying to clear the static from my mind.
Eleanor stood at the long mahogany sideboard, her fingers lifting the heavy silver soup spoons from their velvet-lined box. She handled each piece as if she were inspecting it for a flaw.
“We will need twelve place settings this year, Claire,” she said, her voice carrying that thin, practiced lightness.
I laid out the thick flannel pads across the table to protect the wood from the hot serving dishes. My hands were still stiff from the morning’s scrubbing.
