He went on a Sunday, which was when Lucia expected him, and he did not call ahead, which was when she would not.
She was in the garden when he arrived, which in October meant she was in her coat and gloves at a small iron table with a cup of tea she allowed herself to grow cold while she looked at the grounds with the proprietorial attention of a woman who had tended something for sixty years and understood it as an extension of herself. She heard him on the path. Did not turn.
“You’re angry,” she said.
“Yes.” He sat across from her without being invited to, which she had always allowed him and which they both understood as a particular category of intimacy that existed only between them. “I want to talk about Seraphina.”
“I know.” She picked up her cup. Set it down again. “I’ve been e
