“Ethan’s fifteen. Lily’s twelve. The twins, Noah and Nora, nine. Maggie’s six.” His throat worked as if swallowing something sharp. “Rosie’s four.”
“I’d like to meet them.”
“They’re doing chores.” He stepped toward the door as if even that small request cost him. “Your room’s upstairs, end of the hall. Used to be the sewing room. Bed, dresser, chair. If you need anything, tell me.” He paused in the doorway, not quite looking at her. “Supper’s at seven, Mrs. Whitfield. I expect you’ll manage something tonight, even without your trunk.”
Then he was gone, boots heavy on the wooden floor, the front door shutting with a quiet finality that sounded, to Clara’s ears, too much like a coffin lid.
She stood alone in the kitchen, listening to the silence settle back over the house like dust. It pressed into corners, into the gaps between boards, into her lungs. Clara moved to the pump, worked the handle until water gushed cold and clean, then splashed her face. The shock brought her back to herself, reminding her that she was here for work, not sentiment, and that grief did not pay wages.
