She flipped through a few more pages of the album, unhurried, and then she stopped, with a casualness I would only recognize as rehearsed much later, at a photograph of our own house on Elm Street.

She studied it, and then she turned her thoughtful eyes to me.

“Tell me, Frances — is the title to this house still held jointly, in both of your names?

Or is it registered under Lawrence alone?”

I was at the counter filling the kettle, and the question slid past me as easily as she had intended it to.

“Oh, our attorney, Mr.

Bradley, handles all of that for us,” I said, reaching for the pot.