Chapter 4: Joan at the Door

I was on Dorothy's front step with my keys in my hand when a silver sedan turned into the driveway too fast.

Dean's mother got out with a casserole dish in oven mitts.

Joan Ames was sixty-two, with a silver bob, pearl studs and a mouth set in a line.

She had never once been late to anything that was her business.

"Rosalind," she said. "Dean called me at seven this morning."

"Good morning, Joan."

"He says you've hired a lawyer."

I looked at the neighbor across the street, who had stopped watering his hedge.

"I emailed one," I said. "Yes."

"Over a stove."

"Over three years of orders that all went to the wrong house."

Joan handed the casserole to Dorothy, who had come out behind me, and Dorothy took it with both hands and a wet-eyed look.

"Dot has buried a husband," Joan said. "She has a six-year-old to raise. And you stand in her driveway counting."

"I'm not counting in her driveway. I was leaving."

"You came here to shame her."

"I came with a pie."

Joan didn't look at the pie.

"My other son would be ashamed of you," she said.

It was the first time anyone had brought him up in front of me since the funeral.

I took my phone out and turned around.

The kitchen window looked straight onto the green stove and the sawed-off cabinets.

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