“The property records, all of it.

I’ve never had to think about it.

Would you like another cup of tea, Shirley?”

Something flickered across her face — I did not see it then, but I have replayed that afternoon many times since, and I am certain now that it was there — a flash of something that was not grief and not nostalgia.

Then it was gone, smoothed over.

“That sounds wonderful, Frances,” she said, and she let me pour the tea, and she asked nothing more about the house.