I pushed the document back into the compartment, locked the door, and slipped the tiny key back onto the dusty ledge just as his shadow crossed the threshold.
I stood up slowly, keeping my hands deep in my cardigan pockets.
George stood in the doorway, his silk handkerchief already in his hand as he began to polish his gold-rimmed glasses. He looked at me over the rims, his eyes small and grey in the morning light.
“Your mother said you were looking for the postage scale, Clara,” he said, his voice level and dry.
“I was looking for stamps,” I said. “The tray on the desk was empty.”
“We moved the stamps to the pantry drawer last Tuesday,” he said. He folded the handkerchief into a perfect square and slipped it into his breast pocket. “The desk is for legal correspondence only.”
He did not step into the room, but he did not leave the doorway either.
“I will find them in the pantry,” I said, stepping toward him.
“See that you do,” he said. “Your sister is waiting for you in the kitchen.”
The green metal watering can felt heavy in my hand as I filled it from the garden hose. Through the kitchen window, the backyard looked pale under the high, grey clouds of the October afternoon.
Rosie was sitting on the wooden bench near the pumpkin patch, her feet dangling an inch above the grass. She was wearing her yellow sweater, the one with the mismatched buttons she had sewn on herself.
Ben came around the corner of the barn, his boots silent on the damp turf. He had changed out of his work flannel into a clean white shirt, though the collar was slightly frayed at the points.
In his right hand, he carried a small black velvet box, no larger than a plum.
I stopped the water, the hose gurgling as the flow died.
Ben walked slowly, his eyes fixed on the grass until he reached the edge of the pumpkin patch. Rosie stood up, her knees straight, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
