I put it in my purse behind the checkbook and zipped it shut.

Douglas stood in front of the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the framed photograph of my parents on the mantel as though he had never seen it before.

“That’s a beautiful frame,” he said, loudly enough for the kitchen to hear.

“Walnut?”

“Maple,” I said.

“My father made it.”

“Well.” He turned and smiled at me with all his teeth.

“It’s a handsome piece.