On the way back to Maple Street, I stopped at the bakery on Marion Street and bought a heavy white box tied with blue cotton string, holding six almond pastries.

When I unlocked the back door at a quarter past one, the thick heat from the kitchen radiator hit my face along with the heavy smell of fried onions and lemon cleaner.

Eleanor stood at the gas stove holding a silver slotted spoon, her floral robe tidily belted over dark wool trousers.

“You brought pastries,” Eleanor said, turning around with a wide, slow smile.

She laid her spoon on a blue ceramic rest and took the white box right out of my hands.