He heard the car in the driveway at half past four.
He was in the study, marking the last of the comprehension responses he'd brought home from school, and he heard the specific sound of Maryanne's engine and then the door, and then the quality of the house adjusting to her presence — the particular shift in the air of a space that has been one person and is now two. He put down the pen and went to the hallway.
She was in the bedroom.
He stood in the doorway.
She was moving with the focused, efficient quality of someone mid-task — not hurried, not scattered, just purposeful. On the bed was the large grey suitcase she used for trips of more than two nights, open, partially filled. She was at the wardrobe with her back to him, moving items from hangers to the case with the practiced econ
