Chapter 9: Tea in the Back Bay

Eleanor Lathrop poured my tea herself, from a silver pot, in a Back Bay parlor with six chairs and nobody else in it.

I had put on the gray cardigan that morning.

I had stood in my bedroom a long time with it in my hands, and then I had pulled it on over my blouse and rolled the cuffs twice.

It smelled faintly of the detergent Rhys had washed it with.

It hung to my knees, and I wore it under my coat.

"Miss Brennan," Eleanor said. "Thank you for coming. I know you didn't have to."

"Your driver was very persuasive."

"Milk?"

"No, thank you."

She was sixty-one, with a silver bob, pearl earrings and a camel coat draped over the arm of her chair.

Her back didn't touch the cushion.

I watched her hands on the pot, and I noticed they were not steady.

"I owe you an apology," she said. "Amber's behavior on Saturday was unforgivable."

"She isn't the one who's here to apologize."

"No." Eleanor smiled thinly. "She rarely is."

She set the pot down and took an envelope from the table beside her.

"This is a check for ten thousand dollars. It's for the clothes, and the damage to your home, and your trouble."

I didn't touch it.

"I won't take it."

"It isn't charity. It's restitution."

"It's money handed across your parlor so I'll stay home on Saturday," I said. "I've been handed that kind of envelope before."

Her fingers tightened on the paper.

"You've never been handed one by me."

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