“This is going to permanently damage your relationship with Sarah.”
I looked at him.
“The message last night already did damage.”
He started to speak.
I closed the door.
Then locked the deadbolt.
Their voices continued outside for several minutes.
David’s low and sharp.
Sarah’s quick and anxious.
Then car doors slammed.
The SUV drove away.
I dropped the brass key into the ceramic bowl on the entry table.
It made one small, clean sound.
That afternoon, I worked in the backyard.
Gardening had been Michael’s hobby.
After he died, it became mine because I couldn’t bear watching the tomato beds vanish beneath weeds.
I was pulling dead vines when my neighbor Martha leaned over the fence.
Martha Reynolds had lived next door for twenty-one years. She was seventy-two, twice widowed, wore lipstick to take out the trash, and possessed a remarkable ability to observe everything while appearing not to.
“Heard voices on your porch.”
I kept working.
“Sound carries.”
“It certainly does when David is involved.”
I laughed despite myself.
Martha rested her elbows on the fence.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
“That sounded like a lying yes.”
I stood and brushed dirt from my gloves.
“Sarah and David want some distance.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“From you?”
“Yes.”
“The woman paying half their life?”
I stared.
“How do you know that?”
“I have eyes.”
“Martha.”
“What?”
She climbed onto the little garden stool beside the fence.
“You think I haven’t noticed you driving over there every first of the month with grocery bags while Sarah posts brunch pictures online?”
“I don’t drive over there every first.”
“Fine. Every second.”
I shook my head.
Then Martha’s expression grew serious.
“I saw David yesterday.”
“Where?”
“Garden center near their neighborhood.”
My stomach tightened.
“He was loading a television into the SUV.”
“So?”
“Amber, the box was almost as tall as I am.”
I stared.
“He told the employee helping him that they were turning the basement into a home theater.”
I said nothing.
Martha continued carefully.
