“Which one, Clara?” The guarantee for four hundred and twelve thousand dollars, I said.

He smiled, a warm easy expression that did not reach his eyes, and set the spoon down.

“You signed that three months ago, before we locked in the construction rates.”

I have no record of signing a guarantee for that amount, I told him.

He laughed, a short indulgent sound, and reached across the oak table to touch the back of my hand, and said I had been working too hard on the estate accounts and it was making me forgetful.

My memory for six-figure liabilities, I said, is usually quite precise.