Chapter 5: Soup and a Blanket

Rosalind found me on Saturday, one week to the day after the restaurant.

I heard the studio door chime, then a soft voice downstairs saying, "I won't stay, I promise."

Margaret's answer was a long, flat silence.

I put down my pencil.

"Let her up," I called.

"Lucy," Margaret said from the bottom step.

"If I hide, she wins the story. Let her up."

Rosalind came to the doorway in her cream cardigan, with a covered pot in both hands and a canvas bag over her shoulder.

Her pale blue eyes were red at the rims.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "Constance gave me the address. I told her you wanted privacy, but I couldn't bear it."

"Come in," I said. "Sit where I can see you."

She sat in Margaret's armchair and set the pot on the floor.

"It's chicken soup. My mother's. It's the only thing I know how to make for someone who's sick."

"Thank you."

"I know I'm the last person you want in this room."

"You're not the last."

She laughed, a small wet laugh, and wiped under one eye.

Margaret leaned in the doorway, one arm folded across her chest and the kettle in her other hand.

"I'll be right here," she said.

"Please," said Rosalind. "I would want someone here, too."

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