They arrived in the order I had not planned but somehow expected.
My mother first. Of course my mother first. She came through the door at five thirty with two dishes wrapped carefully and the expression of a woman who had decided the evening was going to be exactly right and intended to have a hand in ensuring it. She went directly to the kitchen without being shown the way because she had decided on her second visit that she knew this kitchen, and she was correct.
Eleanor Voss arrived at six. Dark coat. Leather bag. The same composure she had carried the first evening she came here but lighter underneath it. She stood in the hallway and looked around and said: it looks like a home now.
I said: it did before.
She said: it looks more like one now. There is a difference.
Clara Marsh ar
