The crisp blue stamp of the notary public was still drying on the cover sheet of the bank ledger.

Margaret was standing on the porch at eleven o’clock holding a clear glass baking dish full of warm oatmeal cookies.

A pink envelope with gold trim was pinned beneath her left thumb.

“I brought these for Lucy,” Margaret said.

“I know how much she loves the raisins.”

She didn’t wait to be invited in.

She walked past me into the front hall and set the baking dish on the little wooden table next to the coat rack.

“The house feels chilly today, Clara,” she said, smoothing the lapels of her tan wool coat.