The third hook on the pine board by the kitchen door was empty. My father had kept his spare silver house key on that brass ring for thirty years, but today only the metal curve showed against the white paint. I touched the hook with my index finger, the metal cold and slightly rough at the tip.
I stood in the doorway, my wool coat still zipped against the October damp that clung to the elm trees outside the kitchen window.
Mark sat at the oak table in his gray fleece sweatpants, a mug of black coffee between his palms. It was half past ten on a Wednesday morning, the second day after the funeral service. The coffee was steaming, rising in thin gray curls toward the low ceiling.
“Shouldn’t you be at the office?” I asked. My voice sounded flat in the quiet of the room.
He did not look up from the screen of his personal phone. “They have plenty of people to cover the morning meetings, Clare. I told them I needed some time.”
“The regional director called your personal line twice yesterday,” I said. “I saw the notifications on the kitchen counter while I was making tea.”
Mark rubbed his forehead, his thumb sliding slowly across the bridge of his nose. He always did that when he had to talk about anything that required an explanation. “I told them I needed a few days to help you sort through things. It is the respectful thing to do.”
“There is nothing to sort today,” I said, unbuttoning my coat but leaving it on my shoulders. “The lawyer is still preparing the initial paperwork for probate. He said it would take a week just to get the filing ready.”
“Samuel Green moves like cold molasses,” Mark said, setting his mug down with a soft hollow thud on the wood. “We need to make sure he doesn’t drag this out for six months. We have real decisions to make, and we can’t afford to let some downtown attorney dictate the timeline.”
“It has been four days since we laid him to sleep, Mark.”
