“Is the coffee fresh, at least?” I asked.

“The pot’s full,” she said, nodding at the thermal carafe.

“Go sit with your husband in the dining room while the tea steeps.”

“Did he ask you to make me tea?” I asked.

“He told me to look after you,” she said, turning her back to the counter.

I carried my mug of black coffee into the dining room at a quarter to two.

Daniel sat at the dark mahogany table with his silver laptop open beside a stack of printed mortgage default notices and unpaid consulting invoices.