“Tom is a very polite man,” I said. “But he is a high school history teacher who needs to grade papers in peace, not on the couch.”
“But Robert’s place is so far,” Emma said, her eyes tracing the floral pattern on her rug. “We won’t see you every day.”
“It is only Park Slope,” I said, placing the sweater into the box. “It is thirty minutes on the subway.”
“I just feel like you are rushing into this because of us,” she said.
She reached out and touched my wrist, her hand warm.
“I am fifty-four, Emma,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “I know how to share a home, and Robert is a very steady man.”
On Sunday morning, the back of Tom’s station wagon was empty, and my three suitcases sat in Robert’s hallway. The air in the brownstone smelled of lemon wax and old paper.
Robert stood by the tall living room windows, hands in his pockets, watching the rain hit the glass.
“We will need to establish a system for the shelves,” he said, pointing to the built-in oak bookcases. “Fiction on the bottom, history on the top.”
