“That is a terrible start,” I said.
The young woman stepped into view behind him. She looked from him to me, suddenly alarmed.
He turned halfway toward her. “Clara, it’s all right.”
Then to me, low and urgent: “Please come inside before you say anything out here.”
That made me angrier.
I stepped past him into a house that smelled faintly of dust, paper, and groceries.
It was almost empty.
Boxes against the walls. A folding table with bread and tins on it. Papers stacked in uneven piles. And on the mantel, an old photograph in a cheap frame.
I picked it up.
It was Paul at 17. Thin. Serious. Standing beside an older woman in an apron.
I turned. “Who is she?”
Paul shut the door. He looked twenty years older than he had that morning.
The young woman spoke first, very softly. “My grandmother. Rose.”
I looked at my husband. “You need to explain this from the beginning.”
Paul ran a hand over his face. “I know what this looks like.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then explain why my husband has been disappearing for hours to bring groceries to a young woman in an empty house.”
Clara looked horrified. “I can go outside.”
“No,” Paul said quickly. “Stay. She deserves the truth.”
I folded my arms. “I am waiting.”
He pulled out a chair for me. I stayed standing.
He nodded once, accepted that, and said, “After my retirement party, Martin came over.”
“Martin from school?”
“Yes. He had seen the retirement notice in the local paper. He said he thought it might be me. He’d been trying to find me.”
“Because Rose’s family found a letter with my name on it.”
I looked at the photo again. “Who was Rose?”
Paul stared at the floor for a second. When he looked up, his eyes were wet.
“She was the reason I finished school.”
That shut me up.
