It sounded so simple put that way. In reality, however well behaved her mother was in Howard’s presence, recriminations would surely follow when the two of them were alone. To prevail, Jean would have to be resolute, obstinate even. Somehow the knowledge that he was out there, emphatically and eternally on her side, shoring her up, gave her strength. Once her mother realized she held no cards, Jean could be generous.

“I’d like that. You’re not going to change your mind between now and tomorrow?”

“No. Never.”

She was already there, ahead of him, the anxious hostess in her wondering what she could possibly make that would be worthy of the occasion.

Dusk was falling, a pale lilac glow at the horizon all that remained of the daylight, as they walked back through the woods arm in arm, the trees in their dark suits lining the path on either side.

40

Wednesday, December 4, 1957

Howard stood in the doorway in Bedford Street looking out at a slab of fog. He had been in his workshop all afternoon resizing rings and mending an elegant pocket watch under bright artificial light and had not been aware of its gathering presence. It was thick as custard and glowed a sickly yellow in the lamplight.

On his way into work in the morning visibility had been poor. He had felt a bit congested as he walked along the Strand, but a cigarette had settled his cough, and he had been able to see well enough to pick up some hothouse roses from the market—at an exorbitant price—for Mrs. Swinney. They were now standing in a chipped mug in the washbasin. The florist had told him to stir some cigarette ash into the water to preserve the blooms, but Howard wasn’t sure if he was pulling his leg, so decided not to risk it.

He took off his twill overall and hung it on its usual hook. The cash box from the till was locked in the wall safe. His tools were neatly put away on their pegs, the cabinets locked. He put on his ulster overcoat and felt hat, and tied a cleanish handkerchief over his nose and mouth. (Freshly laundered linen had been an early casualty of Gretchen’s departure.)

In his pocket was a velvet box containing the silver bracelet with moonstones that Jean had picked out as her favorite on that unexpected visit to the shop with Margaret. Already a little in love with her, he had stored the memory away in case there should ever come a time in some unimaginable future when he might be able to make a gift of it. She wouldn’t have forgotten, either; he was sure of it. She had spent a lifetime on the sidelines, observing, noting, learning; the little details that other people missed were not lost on her.

He hesitated on the threshold, shuffling the keys in his hand, before stepping out blindly into the milky mass, surprised to find that it offered no resistance. It seemed substantial enough to be carved into chunks. He drew down and padlocked the metal shutters and turned the key in the door, a nightly ritual, the scrape and rattle of locking up tolling the end of each working day.