“You’re Penelope,” she said.

I didn’t answer her.

She smoothed the hem of her linen apron with both palms and swung the heavy door all the way open.

“I’m Bob’s legal wife,” she said.

Ruth turned and walked into the front hall, leaving the door standing wide open behind her.

I stepped through the doorway and followed her into a square, carpeted parlor with flowered wallpaper and a red brick fireplace.

On the mahogany sideboard stood a brass desk lamp and a tidy stack of carbon order slips stamped Westfall Florist.