A few times that month, I noticed Garrett on the phone in his study, the door half-closed, talking to someone named Whitfield. He had papers on the desk and a leather folder he tucked away when I walked in.
“Just tidying up some old paperwork,” he told me. “Nothing for you to fret about.”
“I’m not fretting. I’m nosy.”
He laughed and pulled me into his lap as if we were 20 again!
“Eleanor, they’re things I put in place a long time ago. I’m only making sure every line is airtight. You’ll always be safe, no matter what those two think of me.”
I noticed Garrett on the phone.
I didn’t ask what he meant. I should have.
But the months passed in a kind of warm hush, winter into a tentative spring, and I let myself believe the storm outside our bedroom door wouldn’t ever come in.
***
It happened on a Tuesday.
Garrett poured his coffee, reached for the paper, and then his hand went to his chest. He looked at me with such surprise, as if he’d just remembered something important. And then he was gone, just like that.
A heart attack.
I didn’t ask what he meant.
***
At the cemetery, the wind cut straight through the black dress I wore.
Margaret stood across the open grave, dry-eyed, watching me as if I were a stain on the linen.
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