Arthur drew a folded morning newspaper out of his jacket pocket.

He didn’t take a seat, standing instead by the refrigerator and folding the newsprint over on itself until it made a tight, stiff square.

“We need to sit down and deal with the mortgage situation on Elmwood Lane,” Arthur said, his loud voice slicing through the hum of the refrigerator.

“David would have wanted us to make these heavy property decisions for you, Eleanor.”

I didn’t answer him right away.

I reached down and turned the plain gold band on my left ring finger twice, until its flat edge lined up with my knuckle.

“Who said anything about a mortgage situation?” I asked.

Arthur folded the paper once more and pressed the crease flat with his heavy thumb.

“Common sense, Eleanor.

An Army intelligence officer on ordinary service pay doesn’t pay off a four-bedroom suburban house without piling up serious debt.”

“The house is paid off in full, Dad,” I said.

Arthur gave a soft snort and turned his head to gaze out the kitchen window.

“We’ll see what the official bank records say once Julian goes over the account paperwork.”

“Julian is an investment manager,” I said.