Chapter 10: The Price of a Statement

Honora came into the kitchen with her gloves in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other.

She looked at me, and at Preston, and at the phone lying face up on the counter.

For a moment nobody breathed.

Then she smiled.

"What a lovely surprise," she said. "I bought almond croissants. You always liked those."

"I did," I said. "For two years."

Her eyes moved over Preston's red face and the wet cuffs of his shirt.

I watched her read it.

It took her a second.

She set the pastries on the counter and drew off her other glove, finger by finger.

"He told you," she said.

The warmth had gone out of her voice completely.

It was flat and dry, and I realized I had never once heard it without the kindness laid over the top.

"He told me enough."

"Of course he did. He's soft. I should have put someone else in that chair."

"Mother," Preston whispered.

"Be quiet, Preston."

He shut his mouth.

She pulled out a stool and sat down across from me, composed and straight-backed.

"I won't insult you by denying it," she said. "You're an intelligent woman. It's why I chose you."

"You chose me."

"I interviewed eleven candidates. You were the only one who had no family nearby, no serious relationship and no habit of making a fuss."

My hands closed on the edge of the counter.

"You're saying you picked me because nobody would come looking."

"I'm saying you had good qualities, and I used them," she said. "I'm not ashamed of it, Claire."

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