I walked through it once, with the young couple from Marjorie’s garden, who’d become the kind of friends you don’t expect to make at thirty-six.
Brian had repainted the kitchen gray.
There was a treadmill in the room where I’d planned a nursery.
Nicole’s handwriting was on the whiteboard by the refrigerator.
“B — call Hollis re: R. Tuesday.”
I took a photo of that too.
Habit.
Then I sold it.
Not to the highest bidder.
To the young couple, for what they could afford, which was less than it was worth and more than I’d had nineteen days out.
The wife cr*ed in the driveway.
The husband asked if he could take the maple.
“It’s a tree,” I said. “It stays with the house.”
“I mean can we keep it. Not cut it.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Please keep it.”
And the watch.
Nicole’s lawyer sent it to Anita in a padded envelope the week of the plea, with a note that said only “Her father’s.”
