At seven the next morning, the hallway floorboards creaked before my alarm had even gone off.

Bob came into the bedroom carrying a tray with two plates of dry toast and scrambled eggs, and three long-stemmed yellow roses laid across the cloth napkin.

“I finally saw how foolish I’ve been acting, Penelope, and I want to set everything right between us starting today,” he said, putting the tray on my lap.

He dragged over the low wooden footstool and sat down right next to the bed.

“I said things at the bank I never should have said, and I was short with you about Uncle John,” he said.