Chapter 23: Duluth

Gran's house stood at the top of a hill in Duluth, with the lake lying grey and enormous at the bottom of every street.

I hadn't been inside since the funeral.

The key was still on my ring, between the studio's and Bea's.

The door stuck, the way it always had, and Declan put his shoulder to it and it gave.

The hall smelled of cold dust and cedar and, very faintly, of her lavender soap.

I stood on the mat in my coat.

"You don't have to do this tonight," he said.

"I want to."

I turned the heat on at the old dial, and the pipes banged twice and started to hum.

"We need food," I said.

"The store is a mile away."

"Then we walk."

We came back in the dark with a paper bag.

Gran's kitchen had a yellow table and one iron pan, black with sixty years of butter.

I made grilled cheese and tomato soup, the way she had on every bad day of my life.

Declan sat at the table with his sleeves pushed up, and he watched me.

"What?" I said.

"You're humming."

"I'm not."

"It's something with a lot of verses."

I flipped the sandwich.

"It was hers," I said. "I didn't know I still knew it."

He ate two sandwiches and said they were the best thing he'd had in four years, and I told him he'd lived on cereal and shame.

He laughed so hard he put his head down on his arms.

I did the dishes.

He dried.

When the last bowl was on the rack he took the towel and tossed it on the counter and stood behind me, close, and said, "The papers are signed."

"Rodney's lawyer emailed an hour ago. It's filed, and Delphine's lawyer isn't contesting."

"So the rule's gone."

"It's gone."

"Then tell me what you want." His voice was low in my hair. "In your own words. All of it."

I turned around in his arms.