“Frank told you that himself?”

“He gave me his word, Claire.”

She reached over and laid her cold hand on top of mine.

“I never wanted to take this house away from you or Bennett,” she said.

“You have to believe me.”

By eleven thirty the kitchen was full of the warm smell of toasted rye and simmering vegetable soup.

Bennett sat on the linoleum by the pantry, stacking six wooden blocks into a tall red tower.

Lauren was chopping celery on the butcher block by the sink, her dark hair twisted up in a quick knot.