She picked her handbag up off the chair and walked out to the porch without another word about the muffins.

At two fifteen that afternoon I walked through the double glass doors of First Federal Bank on Farmington Avenue.

The branch lobby was quiet and carried a faint smell of wet coats, polished brass and radiator heat.

I pulled ticket number thirty-four from the brass dispenser by the door and waited near the blue carpet runner.

A teller at window three waved me forward with a quick gesture.

“Good afternoon, Mrs.