She left him undisturbed until the close of the day, not even transferring phone calls into his office. When she poked her head in to say she was going home, he was sitting at his desk staring at a ledger through a glaze of unshed tears. “Mr. Mickelson, I—” She stopped when he looked up at her. “Mr. Mickelson, are you all right?” she said, sliding into the room and shutting the door behind her.

Confronted with such tenderness, he couldn’t hold in a racking sob.

“You poor man,” Florence said. She crossed the room quickly and pulled the drapes shut behind him. It wouldn’t do for the town to see John Mickelson not in control of himself. She stood next to his chair, rested her hand on his shoulder. “Isn’t it good news that Jack is all right?”

His sobs worsened.

“Oh, dear,” Florence said.

“I don’t—” he choked. “What if he’s—? We got a—Chase!”

“Now, now,” she said, patting his shoulder.

“Got a letter from Chase—” he said, “week after he was dead. He was dead!”

“You poor man,” Florence said again.

He reached out and clutched her about the waist, pulling her close, pressing his cheek between her breasts. She smelled of cinnamon rolls and powder, starch and a rosy perfume.

“Mr. Mickelson,” she said gently.

He only clutched her tighter. After a moment, he felt her hand settle on the back of his head.

“Oh, my,” she said afterward, quickly covering herself. She moved her leg around him and slid down off his desk. She turned her back to him and began straightening her clothing, buttoning up her blouse.

“I—I have to apologize,” he said, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up. “I wasn’t myself.” He fastened his belt. “It won’t happen again.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “I know. It was my fault, too.” She paused, looked away.

He tried to straighten the papers they’d crushed into disarray on his desk. “This won’t affect your employment here in any way,” he said. “We’ll just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Yes,” she agreed, straightening her skirt.

He had been entirely helpless, he told himself as he walked home that evening. He was too wrought-up, not in his right mind. Crazy with grief and the need to prove that he lived, that he felt, that the blood was rushing through his veins. What’s done is done, but I’ll be a better husband from now on, he promised himself. It was a Friday evening—he had all weekend to prove it.