“Yes . . . Yes, of course.” She crossed the kitchen to the pantry as if in a daze. Okay, Sarah thought. These painkillers are messing with my mind. I feel like I’m missing half the content of these conversations. Auntie Jane reappeared from the pantry a moment later with a wicker picnic basket. She placed it carefully on the white marble kitchen counter as if it were made of glass. Her gaze flickered up from the basket to lock with Sarah’s, only for a moment, but the impact was like a fist to Sarah’s gut. The expression in Auntie Jane’s eyes was almost luminous with sorrow. Then her head tipped downward like the broken stem of a flower. She moved to the fridge and opened it like a sleepwalker. “We have some nice cold fried chicken,” Auntie Jane said to Uncle Phillip in a tentative voice. “Would that do?”

“Fine.” He seemed agitated. He was standing in the breakfast nook staring out the window at the rear garden beyond.

Auntie Jane took a Tupperware container of chicken out of the fridge and placed it in the basket. “There’s also some leftover chocolate layer cake. Would you like some of that?”

“Woman, I don’t care what you put in the basket. Just pack the damn lunch and let’s get on with it. I’ve got to return to the city later today.” He turned from the window. “Excuse me.” He crossed the kitchen. “I need to grab something from my study. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into a room down the hall. Sarah caught a quick flash of lovely mahogany paneling and bookcases before the heavy wooden door swung shut behind him.

“Can I give you a hand, Auntie Jane?”

“No . . . no . . .” the elderly woman murmured. The color still hadn’t returned to Auntie Jane’s cheeks. She seemed suddenly old, shaken. The kitchen was quiet, just the sound of Auntie Jane packing a few more items into the basket, Uncle Phillip thumping around in his study, and the faintest sound of the soaring score of a children’s movie playing upstairs.

A wave of melancholy swept over Sarah. She had always thought of Auntie Jane as relatively content, with a good marriage. Apparently, nothing was as it seemed. One thing is for certain. I’m going to start shopping for a new lawyer. I refuse to have abusive people in my life. Perhaps the man is polite to me, but how he treats his wife speaks volumes. Once her divorce was finalized, the trust her parents had set up would be dissolved. For the time being . . . Sarah slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out the package of M&M’s. “I know we are eating soon, but . . .” Sarah shrugged and managed a grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Would you like a couple? You know, an amuse-bouche?”

“No, thank you, dear.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”