Chapter 1: The Note Left Over

Nora Bell slid it across when the boy reached for the jam.

“Before I forget.”

“There’s still that note.”

“You’ve been working all afternoon.”

“I can check it when I come back.”

“Of course.”

The envelope remained between the sugar bowl and her cup. She set her hand over it, feeling the edge of the flap through the paper.

“Don’t leave it on the piano,” their hostess said. “I lose everything there.”

Ada Mercer put it in her handbag.

The boy was looking down at his bread. A drop of jam had fallen onto his plate, and he drew the knife through it before spreading what remained.

She took out her appointment book.

“Next Thursday?”

Nora Bell went to the calendar on the refrigerator. From the table, Ada Mercer could see colored squares of paper held beneath magnets, a shopping list, and the corner of a photograph hidden by a reminder about trash collection.

“After four,” their hostess said. “I won’t be here before that.”

The boy nodded when Ada Mercer looked at him.

She wrote the family name and time in the book. Underneath, in smaller letters, she wrote: middle note, check.

Nora Bell returned to her chair.

“There. That’s settled.”

For a while they spoke about the road outside, which had been dug up so often that nobody remembered its original surface. Ada Mercer finished her bread. When she reached for her cup, it was still warm.

At the door, the boy wound his scarf around his neck while she fastened her bag. Nora Bell held the storm door against the wind. The cold reached inside and lifted one corner of the mat.

“Careful on the path. It looks wetter than it is.”

Ada Mercer put her foot down deliberately. Behind her, the boy lifted the tool bag over the threshold without letting it strike the frame.

They walked to the temporary stop. At the pharmacy window she paused to adjust her glove, although it needed no adjusting. He stopped beside her without asking.

“You heard it go smooth,” he said.

She worked her thumb into the glove.

“For a moment.”

“Was that how it was supposed to sound?”

A bus passed on the opposite side of the street. Through its lit windows she saw people sitting with their shopping held between their knees.

“Yes,” she said.

He shifted the bag to his other hand.

She could have told him then. The street offered a kind of privacy: traffic, people passing, no table at which either would have to remain seated afterward. She looked toward the corner where their bus would appear.

“Some things are easier to judge when you come back to them.”