“I don’t need a nurse,” she said. “I need someone to sit at my table and pretend this house still has a family.”
I shifted on the porch. “Pretending costs extra.”
She smiled. “Then you’re honest. Come in. I’m Marianne.”
Her kitchen smelled of rosemary and old wool. She poured tea so bitter it made my eyes water, but I drank every drop.
“You’re holding that cup like someone’s going to snatch it from you,” she said.
“Habit.”
“From where?”
“Nowhere worth telling.”
She nodded and slid a tin of shortbread toward me.
Every Sunday after that, I returned.
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