“Let’s hope there is no goulash in the safe-deposit box.”

“More likely, I’ll find appliance warranties. Maybe my father’s secret strategies for a business model based on replacing old rusted carburetors with other old rusted carburetors.”

“Is that what he did?”

“I told you about that. Have you ever heard of the vast empire of stores, with locations coast to coast, Gottesfeld Auto Parts?”

“No.”

“That’s why. Are you feeling me up?”

“I am definitely feeling you up. I just didn’t know if you would want me along for the fun of it, or the sadness of it, or the whatever of it. So do you think she had secrets?” He traced the line of her arm with one finger, grazing the sleeve of her sweater, from elbow to wrist and back again.

“Everyone has secrets, George.” Rebecca idly stacked up the little tubs of Smucker’s strawberry jam that had been served with their toast.

“Stashed in the Emigrant Savings Bank. You know what I mean—secrets about the fire, her testimony at the trial—”

“If she did, I doubt there will be a list of annotated explanations. Maybe she did. Now you’re reminding me of that irritating Ruth Zion person. As threatened, she wrote me last week, and I haven’t opened the envelope yet. A big padded mailer. I forgot it in New Haven, right on the table by the door. I had meant to bring it with me so I could look at it on the train, but obviously I have a mental block about her, plus I dread to think what’s in there.” Rebecca squinted at one of the jam packets and read out the ingredients. “Yum, fructose, just like the old country. You know Esther used to put jam in her tea sometimes? There were always seeds in the bottom of her cup. The reused tea bag thing was bad enough, on a saucer in the fridge, ick, but the reused jammy tea bags were really foul.”

Evelyn, the waitress who always wore ample smears of blue eye shadow, even for the early breakfast shift, filled their coffee cups yet again, the way she always did for George, whom she called Honey, and rarely did when Rebecca (whom she called Sweetheart only when George was there too) ate there alone with a book or newspaper.

“So you really don’t want me to go with you? I have to admit I’m curious.”

“No need. It’s in deepest Brooklyn, somewhere on Myrtle Avenue, and from there I’ll probably go straight to my train.”

On the train, once they were under way, Rebecca pulled out the contents of her stained Balducci’s canvas tote onto her lap and thumbed through the envelopes and folders that had been jammed into her grandmother’s safe-deposit box. She had been made to wait so long at the bank before signing in and dealing with the paperwork, having produced the requisite death certificate and estate papers, wanting not only to open the box to retrieve the contents but also to cancel the box rental, that by the time it was all done, she had just shoved everything from the box into the tote without taking the time to examine anything. Otherwise she would have missed her New Haven train. The bank employee, a dignified black woman with impossibly long, airbrushed fingernails, had smiled politely at her, but Rebecca felt that she had probably been secretly appalled at the cavalier dumping of the box contents by yet another dead person’s relative, eager to scoop the loot.