Chapter 4: Peonies

On Monday morning there was no 7:02 text.

I checked my phone twice on the train and once in the elevator.

For three years it had come every day, and now there was a lock screen with a photo of my cat and nothing else.

The chaplain had said the license would be filed by nine on Saturday, and I had spent two days not thinking about it on purpose.

The only message from the weekend was from Victor, sent Sunday at noon.

"Surgery done. He's awake and asking for soup. He also asked for you by name, and then for a second soup."

I had answered with one line: "Tell him I'm bringing soup."

The Aston Foods lobby was a converted warehouse with brick walls and a mural of a tomato.

Every person who passed the reception desk stopped talking until I had gone by.

Somebody's phone had caught the toast from a second angle, and by Sunday night it had been watched four thousand times.

"Good morning," I said to the security guard.

"Morning, Ms. Bell," he said, and studied his clipboard.

Marcy was waiting at my desk on the fourth floor with her red curls piled on top of her head.

She held a paper cup with a kitchen timer taped to the side.

"Oolong," she said. "No sugar. I steeped it myself and timed it. Three minutes."

"Marcy."

"The lemon is in my pocket, because I'm told it goes on the side."

She pulled out a wedge wrapped in a napkin and set it on my desk like evidence.

I took the tea.

It was a little strong.

I loved her very much.

"Is Sal okay?" she said.

"He's okay. Soup."

"And Victor?" She looked at me over her own coffee. "He stood next to you at the end the whole time. Everyone is talking about it."

"He was wearing his brother's suit."

"Mm-hm."

"Marcy."

"I'm just saying a lot of people had a lot of feelings in that suit."

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