“No, I know. It’s good to have a friend like that. They’re easier to make when you’re young, you know, than in real life. Let me tell you.”

The timer made a tinny buzz, and Alice pulled a large baking dish from the oven. “It’s chicken cordon bleu casserole,” she said. “Have you had it before?”

“No, but it sounds delicious. My appetite, though—”

“Oh, I know. I haven’t been able to eat a thing.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, I just wanted to cook, just to have some semblance of . . . normality. Keep myself busy.”

Alice turned back to the casserole, poking at it with a fork, while Harry finished his beer. There was a silence, and Harry tried to think of something to say that didn’t revolve around his father’s death. He remembered the stranger at his father’s funeral, and said, “I saw this girl at the memorial service yesterday. She had dark hair down to her shoulders, and was wearing a grey dress. She didn’t come through the receiving line.”

Alice frowned. “Was it Ginny Wells?”

“No, I know Ginny. This girl was there alone, toward the back of the church. And she had a red purse with her. I just didn’t know who she was, and it’s strange, because I thought I actually saw her Friday when I arrived here. Out on the street.”

“Out on our street?”

“Yeah. I think I saw her from my window upstairs.”

“That’s odd.”

“That was why I was asking. I’m sure it’s just one of Dad’s customers.”

“Most of his customers were old men like he was, but I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing her. Should we eat in the dining room?”

Alice let Harry bring the hot casserole and the salad to the long dining room table, constructed from renovated barn wood. There was a trivet waiting on the table, and he put down the casserole, large enough to feed an army. Places had been laid with wineglasses and two forks—one for the salad, Harry supposed.

“White wine okay?” Alice said, entering with an unopened bottle.

“Oh, sure.”

“Can you open it up and pour us some, Harry, and then we’ll finally eat.”

Despite having lost his appetite again after that morning’s visit from the detective, the food tasted good. It was clear that Alice was not in the mood to talk about serious matters. She asked Harry rapid-fire questions about his future plans, all of which he deflected. She picked at her food and took small sips of the wine, her pale cheeks becoming flushed.

“And what about a girlfriend?” she asked, after bringing him a butterscotch sundae from the kitchen. “Anyone special you left behind?” The words sounded rehearsed.

“No. Not really.”