“How strange and wonderful it is to still see Mrs. Kincheloe’s furnishings!” Libby says, looking all around the foyer at the hall tree, the chandelier, the Oriental rug at our feet, the little table by the stairs where I put the day’s mail.

“Mrs. Kincheloe?” I say.

“The doctor’s wife. This was her house.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” I lead us into the sitting room. “Won’t you have a seat?” I gesture to one of the sofas. Libby sits down and positions her son on her lap. I sit across from them in an armchair and Kat retreats to her book on the floor by the hearth.

“From your accent I would guess you’re not from around here,” Libby says congenially.

“No. I’m from Ireland originally. The North.”

“And this is your little girl?” She nods to Kat, seated on the rug near my feet.

“Um. Yes. This is Kat.”

“Kat?” Libby grins.

“It’s short for Katharine.”

Libby looks down at Kat. “What a pretty thing you are. And how old are you, Kat?”

Kat stares at the woman for a moment and gazes up at me.

“She’ll be six in June,” I say quickly.

Libby raises her head slowly, understanding, it seems, that something is a bit amiss with Kat. “Well,” she continues. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you. You and I are the only young mothers on the block! I was sad to hear Dr. Kincheloe had taken that fancy job in Argentina. His wife, Margaret, was a dear, always willing to take in Timmy if Chester had a nighttime function that I was suddenly expected to attend. My husband’s the assistant headmaster of a private academy and they’re always putting on plays and concerts. And I’ll miss those two little Kincheloe boys, too. Timmy loved watching them run and play. It was quite a nice surprise to see you and your husband moving in and that you have a little girl. Is she your only one?”

“Y-yes,” I answer clumsily.

“And where did you move from? Somewhere else here in the city?”

Again, I stumble over my answer. “Ah, well . . . My . . . my husband had been working in Los Angeles and then . . . ah, he came up here to begin a new job.”

Libby stares at me with curious eyes. Answers to easy questions like these should fly off my tongue.

“How nice,” Libby says. “And what is your husband’s job?”

Finally, an uncomplicated question. “He does work for an insurance company. On the road, though. Assessing risk.”

“I have a cousin who sells life insurance. In Portland,” Libby says. “Which insurance company does your husband work for?”

My face warms with embarrassment. I haven’t asked Martin the name of the company he works for. I haven’t cared. And until Libby asked this question I hadn’t considered that maybe I should care. Martin had said it is important for prospective clients to see him as a fortunate family man—because no wealthy man wants to be confronted with the actual proof that tragedy could befall him, not even when buying insurance, which is why he sent for me. But in the month I’ve been married to Martin, I’ve not met one client, not answered one work-related telephone call—the thing never rings—nor have I taken in any mail related to Martin’s employer. I can’t even look for an envelope and guess who my husband works for.