The smell of cold engine oil drifted from the open garage as Gabriel pulled his sedan into the driveway.
A light, wet snow was beginning to stick to the windshield of my old Buick parked near the curb, melting into grey streaks that ran down the dirty glass.
Gabriel took Violet’s small pink suitcase from the porch and threw it into his trunk with a single, heavy motion.
“I can drive her down,” I said, stepping onto the damp concrete of the driveway. “I have the afternoon free, and the Buick has the newer tires for the snow.”
Gabriel slammed the trunk lid down and turned to face me, his hand resting on the chrome emblem of his car.
“The Buick’s transmission is slipping, Clara,” he said, checking his gold wrist watch again. “I will not have my daughter riding in an unreliable vehicle on the interstate.”
“It is a four-hour drive, Gabriel,” I said, twisting the gold band on my finger until the skin turned red. “Let me go with you. I can help her get settled in Eleanor’s guest room.”
“Eleanor is her aunt, Clara, she knows what is best for the girl,” he said.
He opened the passenger door and motioned for Violet to get in.
Violet stood on the bottom step of the porch, her small fingers dug into the matted fur of Barnaby the bunny. She did not look at her father; she only looked at me, her lower lip tucked between her teeth.
“Go on, Violet,” Gabriel said, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly polite. “We do not want to hit the rush hour traffic near the river.”
I bent down to hug her, feeling the tiny frame of her shoulders through her wool coat, wishing I could pull her back inside the house and lock the door.
“I will call you tonight,” I whispered against her hair.
“Every night?” she asked.
“Every single night,” I said.
Gabriel closed her door with a firm, solid thud that echoed off the brick walls of the garage.
He did not look at me as he got into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and backed out onto the street, leaving me standing alone in the damp driveway.
By seven o’clock, the kitchen was dark except for the small bulb above the sink, which hummed with a low, vibrating drone that seemed to fill the entire ground floor.
The old radiator in the hallway clanked and hissed, a dry heat rising from the iron coils.
I washed the two dinner plates in silence, the soapy water turning cold around my wrists as I stared at the empty chair where Violet usually sat.
Gabriel’s heavy winter coat was hanging over the back of the kitchen chair, smelling faintly of the cigar smoke from his club.
I reached for the dish towel, but my sleeve caught on the pocket of his coat, tilting the heavy wool toward the floor.
A small slip of white paper slid out of the breast pocket and fluttered onto the linoleum.
I bent down and picked it up, expecting a parking receipt or a dry-cleaning ticket.
The paper was a receipt from The Capital Grille, dated last Tuesday at eight in the evening.
The total was two hundred and forty dollars, and the charge was billed for two prime rib dinners and a bottle of expensive French wine.
Last Tuesday, Gabriel had called me at nine to say he was stuck at the office, working late on the quarterly tax filings with his accountant.
My thumb traced the printed date on the thermal paper, the ink still dark and clear under the yellow light of the stove.
The charge had been paid with a card I had never seen before, ending in four digits that did not match any of our joint accounts.
I stood in the quiet kitchen, the receipt warming in my hand, realizing the date was last Tuesday.
I folded the receipt into a tiny square and pushed it deep into the pocket of my cardigan. The smell of cold engine oil from the garage lingered in the kitchen, sharp and metallic.
