Gemma’s voice came from the dining room, bright and quick, the way she talked on the phone.

I poured the tea and carried it in.

She had a legal pad in front of her, one hand flat over most of the page, and a pen in the other.

When I set the cup down, she slid the pad toward her chest and smiled up at me.

“Thank you, Margaret.

You’re just the sweetest.”

“You are working on something,” I said.

“Just organizing my own head.