“It’s a business expense,” she said, her foot tapping faster on the linoleum.

“You couldn’t begin to understand how high-end clients expect a person to present herself.”

“The bank took four hundred dollars out of my business account the week before you left ten years ago,” I said, rubbing a smear of dried amber varnish off my right thumb.

“You told me the grocery store made a billing mistake.”

Vanessa ripped the pink notices out of my hand and stuffed them back into the dark leather pocket of her purse.

“Rob was taking me to the steakhouse on Fourth Street three nights a week back then,” she said.