At four fifty-eight the doorbell rang.

Evelyn stood on the step in her good coat with a foil pan of scalloped potatoes and a cold bottle of white wine, an hour before she had been asked to come.

“You look tired, dear,” she said, and came in past me.

Frank followed with the potatoes and a paper bag of rolls.

“Where do you want these?”

“The counter is fine.”

He set them down and looked through to the living room, where Maya’s laundry sat in a basket on the ottoman and a stack of bank envelopes was squared up beside it.