I SEAT MYSELF AT JULIAN’S DESK. I HAVE POSTPONED this moment for long enough. I slide the key into the lock, open the top drawer, and take out his papers.

You are right, Julian’s memoir should be published. I have a folder of his poems, another of his letters. I owe it to my son to salvage something lasting from his life. I pick up the first sheet on the pile. The sight of Julian’s handwriting is still too painful. I put the papers back in the drawer and write to ask if you will edit them for me.

You come to tea. I am making blackout curtains, the heavy material draped over my knee. I do not look up as you settle yourself beside me.

“How are you feeling?” you ask after a moment.

I push my needle into the fabric and pull the thread through.

“Can I help?”

I shrug. You take my gesture as a sign of acquiescence. From the corner of my eye, I watch you begin to hem the curtain from the opposite end to where I am working. We sew in silence for some minutes.

“Did I tell you I’ve had a letter from Helen about the cottage?” you begin. I almost jab the needle into my finger. I am so angry I burst out.

“Helen wrote to me herself. She said you had practically begged her to take it! You have no right!” You look up quickly. My vehemence has surprised you.

“Helen was looking for a cottage—so I thought I’d suggest it. She and her children seem an amiable sort.”

“Only because you won’t be living in fear of their knocking on your front door every two minutes! Or of bumping into them whenever you go out!

“I didn’t realize you had taken so violently against Helen.”

“It isn’t Helen. You had no business mentioning it to anyone.” I finish my thread and sew the end fast.

“I’m sorry. I thought if someone you knew took the cottage you wouldn’t feel so isolated. Duncan says you’ve had no visitors for weeks.”

I refill my needle and pull another pleat of fabric onto my knee. You steady your end of the curtain with your hand.

“You used to love having people round you. This house was always full of guests. You’re in danger of becoming a recluse.”

I adjust my seam so it is straight.

“I’ve had enough of people.”

“I don’t understand why you’re shutting yourself away. You used to be—”

“I know, the source of light,” I interrupt rudely.

“Duncan tells me you’re not painting either.”

I stare at my needle, pushed halfway through the cloth. What you say is perfectly true. I have painted very little since Julian died.

“So?”

“Ness, you’ve always painted.”

“Well perhaps it’s time I gave up.”