My sister tugged at the lapels of her plush robe and spoke in the quick, dismissive vocal fry she used on her boutique staff.

“Goodwill takes boxed menswear donations until six o’clock on Thursdays,” Harper said, nodding at a big cardboard moving box sitting on the mattress.

“Julian says these double-breasted wool cuts went out of style ten years ago anyway.”

“Put those suits back on the rod, Harper,” I said, staying in the doorway.

She didn’t turn around.

“Eleanor, don’t start being difficult.

A pregnant widow living by herself doesn’t need eighty square feet of closet stuffed with dead man’s clothes.”