The heat of the house hit us first, thick with the smell of lemon oil and dry woodsmoke. Martha stood in the center of the grand foyer, her face pale under the light of the iron chandelier. She was seventy-two, but she looked smaller tonight, her hands wringing a faded linen apron.
“Elena,” Martha said, her voice rising to a trembling, apologetic pitch. “Thank God you made it.”
She knelt on the oriental rug, reaching her arms out toward Leo. “Look at you. You have grown two inches since the funeral.”
Leo stood perfectly still, his hand still anchored in mine. He did not step into her embrace, only giving a small, polite nod.
“Where is Arthur?” I asked.
Martha did not look at me. She stood up, smoothing her apron with quick, nervous strokes of her palms. “He is in the library. He wanted to wait up for you.”
“The doctor said he was bedridden,” I said.
Raymond cleared his throat, checking his gold watch with a quick flick of his wrist. “He had a strong afternoon, Elena. Let us not make him wait.”
