“I’m already late,” Carol said, cutting him off. She turned to Caddie. “Go get your bags from the car, honey.”

Caddie, grateful for the reprieve from the awkward moment, took the keys her mother held out to her and retreated down the steps.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ben asked Carol as soon as Caddie was out of earshot.

“You’re going to have to be alone with her sooner or later, Ben,” said Carol.

“But you’re just dropping her off like she’s a load of laundry,” Ben argued. “She’s your daughter.”

“And she’s your daughter too,” said Carol. “If you think you can do any better with her than I can, be my guest. That’s why she’s here, remember?”

“Maybe if you were a little nicer to her ...” Ben began.

Carol laughed. “Good luck, Ben,” she said as Caddie came back, a bag in each hand. She turned and gave Caddie a far less effusive version of the hug Ben had bestowed upon her earlier. “Call me in a few days,” she said.

She left the two of them standing together and returned to the Lexus. Backing up, she looked at the porch, seemed to shake her head, and returned the way she had come.

Caddie and Ben stood silently for a minute, as if perhaps Carol might come back and save them from one another. Finally, Ben said, “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

“Guess so,” said Caddie.

Ben bent to pick up her bags, but Caddie grabbed them before he could. “I’ll get them,” she said as Ben pulled back reflexively.

Ben held the screen door open as Caddie stepped into the house. She was surprised to discover that it was as hot inside as it was out. “Don’t you have air-conditioning?” she asked.

Ben shook his head. “These houses are so old, I don’t think they could take it,” he answered. “Is it that hot?”

“If there’s no air-conditioning, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” said Caddie.

“I could get a fan,” Ben said vaguely.

Caddie ignored him. She was looking around the house. Ahead of her, down a narrow hallway, she saw the kitchen. To the left was the living room, populated with a large sofa upholstered in what looked disconcertingly like faded pink velvet and a set of mismatched armchairs that stared at one another in mute hostility from either side of a fireplace.

“Where’s my room?” asked Caddie.

Ben indicated a set of stairs going up from the small entry area. “Second floor,” he said. “End of the hall.”

Caddie marched up the stairs, her feet landing heavily on each step. The wood groaned, and she made a mental note to test them later and note the weak spots, in case she ever had occasion to sneak out of the house at night.

The room was horrible. The wallpaper, a faded blue turned gray and patterned with ghostly pink roses, was almost certainly original. Against one wall an old brass bed, looking as ancient as the wallpaper, sagged beneath the weight of its mattress. The quilt atop it, a patchwork of dozens of different fabrics, appeared hand-stitched. Caddie imagined the room’s former occupant sewing it while she died, not leaving the room for a period of years, from some consumptive disease. Opposite the bed stood a five-drawer bureau with a mirror atop it. A framed print of something—mountains, was it?—hung over the bed.