And that was how it was left—an admission, on Cornelius’s part at least, that what was really important was not anything about trespassing, but Nick himself. Though if he expected her to be able to tackle that with Ellen, he was a good deal more optimistic than she was.

While Christina washed the dishes and later helped Cornelius get up and shave and dress, a time each day when they had evolved a sort of nursery-jokey talk that worked very well to support them both through Cornelius’s dependence and his hating it—all the time, underneath, Christina was conscious of the way it is, when two people have shared a life for many years, that the most important things never get said in words. They are communicated through some sort of current, sensed rather than explicit. We are rather than saying, she thought, and this morning we are loving, and without even saying the words Cornelius has made it clear that he is over his anger. This was the root of marriage, really—just the opposite of the excitement of discovering another person through words, of sparring and getting a rise, as she had the other day with Eben. We are together, she thought, as finally, about ten, she got into the car and drove down the hill.

Ellen had seen her stop in the drive and was at the door as Christina got out.

“Just stopped by a second,” Christina said, “on my way to the store.”

“Come in,” Ellen said. “I’m busy, though. You’ll have to forgive me if I stick to my last.” And she went back to her chair by the window and picked up a half-finished curtain. Her manner was unyielding, and she had not even offered Christina a chair.

“Who are those for?”

“Mrs. Croswell.”

Christina sat down in Nick’s chair at the table. She felt the pause growing between them. Anything she thought of saying seemed dangerous.

It was Ellen who filled it, with a polite question.

“Are your children all coming for Thanksgiving?”

“I think so. I had such a dear letter from Olivia—there’s the usual problem about her cat and John’s children’s schnauzer, not to mention Marianne’s dachshunds, but she can put them in a kennel, I suppose. What about your Thanksgiving?”

“Oh, they’ll be here—the whole pack of them. I just wish they would think of helping out a little—it always falls on me.”

“The rock of ages.” Christina attempted a light tone, but there was no response. Ellen sewed on for dear life, her face closed.

After a moment she bit off her thread and said, “They might bring the pies. Of course Sarah works hard, but Micah’s wife never thinks of helping.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I don’t ask for things,” Ellen said.