She talked to Allam about books she liked to read, how she was almost finished TransAtlantic by Colum McCann. He listened while she described the way the writer presented his characters—sometimes direct and face-on, sometimes coming in from the side. McCann mixed things up, she said. He kept the stories interesting. As soon as she was finished TransAtlantic, she would start Holy Days.

Allam asked about Gwen’s name, its meaning. “I like to know the beginning, the background,” he said. “I like the story of words.”

“Gwendoloena,” she said. “It means ‘white-waved’ or ‘new moon.’ My late mother decided that would be my full name, though Gwen is how I’m known to everyone.”

“Gwendo-leen-ah.” He spoke her name into the air several times, adding the h at the end like a sigh that hovered in the room.

“And yours? Allam?”

“It is a word about knowledge, learning. My ancestors moved back and forth between Syria and Turkey, Egypt, Iraq. One of my great-uncles owned—maybe his family owns now, I am not certain—a large antique stall in the market. I visited when I was a boy. He sold beautiful objects: mosaic, copperwork, glass that is blown, textiles—all made in the area. Information was always exchanging, passing along. Learning was given value. Also travel.”

After Allam left, Gwen walked through her house, room to room to room. It was as if every window had been opened. And why was she surprised that she had not felt threatened—not in the least—while he was there?

TWO DAYS AFTER Allam’s visit to her home, Gwen began to make changes. She decided to move back into the main bedroom from the spare room. She resolved to take possession of what was, after all, her own space. After Brigg’s death almost eight months earlier, she had shut the door of the master bedroom, wishing its contents away. Of course the room was still there, and one double closet was full of his clothes.

The first step was to get rid of the marital bed. Brigg died in that bed, she reminded herself. She gritted her teeth and phoned the town junk remover to have the mattress and box spring hauled away. She donated the bed frame and two dressers to Helping with Furniture, a charitable organization that did good work. Just before the truck left, she asked the driver to wait. She ran back up to the bedroom and removed a painting from its hook on the wall and donated that as well. It was the one she’d been given during her retirement dinner at Spice. Brigg had liked it and insisted that it be hung in their bedroom. Gwen hoped that Helping with Furniture could find a use for it. They placed donated goods in homes they furnished for refugees, for people who had no homes of their own or had been caught up in unexpected circumstances. Maybe the scene of rolling hills and placid lake would be a peaceful setting for someone who had come to Wilna Creek from a place of violence or unrest.