Now came the fourth request, and I stood at the window with the phone against my shoulder.
“Arthur, at this rate you’ll have enough photographs to open a museum!”
He laughed, but it came a beat late. “Humor an old man. And Saturday, come to dinner. Helen will cook.”
“Helen?”
“My housekeeper. She makes a roast chicken that could end wars.”
I sent the picture. Afterward I stood in the quiet kitchen, and a small cold thought slid in.
In three weeks, he had asked for pictures of my face. Never my garden, my house, or Maya’s graduation photo I’d mentioned twice.
Only my face.
I told myself it was flattery. Walter would have told me to ask. I never did.
On Saturday I wore my green wool dress and a little lipstick, then wiped it off in the car. Arthur’s house sat on a quiet street in Oakwood, white brick with black shutters and a lamp in every window.
He met me on the porch with pink roses. “For the lady who grows better ones.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He smiled, but his eyes went to my face and stayed there so long that I touched my lip again.
“Come in, Holly.”
The living room smelled of pine polish and old books. A woman came down the hallway carrying two crystal glasses on a tray.
“This is Helen,” Arthur said.
Helen looked up. The tray tilted, and both glasses slid off and shattered across the hardwood.
“Oh, goodness!” I said. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t answer. She stood with her hands still lifted, staring at my face as if she’d seen a photograph come to life.
“Holly?” she whispered.
Part 2: Questions Over Roast Chicken
“Yes?” I said, because it was my name and nobody had ever said it like that.
Arthur stepped between us so smoothly it looked rehearsed. “Helen, please see to the glass.”
“Arthur…”
“Now, please.” His voice had a hard edge I hadn’t heard in three weeks of phone calls.
I knelt to help pick up the pieces. “No, ma’am,” Helen said quickly, almost pleading. “Please don’t.”
Arthur took my elbow and steered me toward the dining room. “She’s had a difficult week.”
I glanced back. Helen was watching me from the doorway, pale as the tablecloth, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she had just recognized someone she’d been told she would never have to see.
Dinner was roast chicken, buttered potatoes, green beans cooked the old Midwestern way until they gave up. It was delicious and I could barely swallow it.
Arthur asked about my childhood. Then about my parents. Then, passing the rolls, whether I’d ever had a sister.
“No,” I said. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
I set down my water glass. “You’re asking a lot of family questions tonight.”
