She arrived in a sensible wool coat, carrying a tiny potted geranium.

“Walter liked these,” she said, almost accusingly.

“Yes, he did.”

She walked slowly around my living room, looking at the watercolor paintings I had hung above the sofa and the accounting books on my desk.

“You keep everything very neat.”

I nearly smiled.

For decades she had complained that I was careless with housekeeping.

“I like it this way,” I said.