We walked through the double doors into the library.
My father-in-law, Arthur Sterling, was not in bed. He sat in his high-backed green leather armchair by the fireplace. A wool blanket was draped across his knees, but his back was straight, his chin lifted. His fingers drummed a steady, dry rhythm on the silver head of his cane.
The room was warm, almost hot. On the small mahogany table beside his chair sat a chipped china cup and a small brass paperweight shaped like an anchor.
“Come here, boy,” Arthur rasped. His voice was breathy, but it had a sharp, commanding edge that did not belong to a dying man.
Leo gripped the hem of his shirt, his fingers whitening as he stared at the floor.
“Go say hello to your grandfather, Leo,” I said, gently nudging him forward.
Arthur reached out a hand. It was spotted with age, but the fingers were thick and steady, showing none of the weakness Martha had described on the telephone. He took Leo by the shoulder, his grip firm enough to make the boy stiffen.
