I brought flowers and a lemon cake from the bakery she liked.

The table was set for four: Helen, her neighbor Marjorie, a retired school librarian named Pete, and me.

We ate roast chicken and argued cheerfully about whether old novels made better films than new ones.

At one point Helen asked about my company.

I began to describe a problem with shipping routes, caught myself, and apologized for talking about work too much.

“Please don’t,” Pete said.