Chapter 17: Her Father's Table

The lawyer held out the folder.

"Mrs. Quincy will withdraw the loan and the conduct review," he said. "In exchange, you sign a quiet divorce and an agreement to say nothing."

Declan took half a step forward.

I put my hand on his chest.

"Is that all of it?" I said.

"It's generous, Mrs. Anson."

"Then tell Mrs. Quincy I said thank you."

I took the folder from him, walked three steps, and dropped it in the trash can by the restaurant door unopened.

"I'll answer on my day," I said. "Not hers."

The lawyer looked at the can, then at me. He went back to his car without another word.

Roz let out a shaky laugh.

"You are the scariest woman I've ever met," she said.

"I'm freezing," I said. "Get in the car."

At eight the next morning Roz put on her good grey coat and her good boots.

She drove to Burlington with me in the passenger seat.

She went into the hospital by the staff door she had used for eleven years.

I followed her as far as the HR office and stood in the hallway with my hands in my pockets.

Through the glass I watched her put a laminated badge on the desk of a woman in a cardigan.

She said something short. The woman said something longer.

Roz shook her head and kept talking.

When she came out she was white around the mouth and smiling.

"I quit," she said. "Before they could sack me. I said Philippa Quincy can have my badge and my review and the parking space."

"How do you feel?"

"Like I jumped off a dock in January."

"Good."

"I start nights at the Harlow clinic on Monday. Eight dollars less an hour." She took my arm. "Worth every cent."

Her father's house was in Essex Junction, a white clapboard with a flag by the door.

Roz sat in the car and looked at it for a long time.

"I haven't told anyone," she said. "Not about Declan. Not about you."

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