Emily’s blue ceramic coffee mug still had two inches of grey, mold-skinned liquid sitting at the bottom. I had not moved it from the counter in six days.
Claire, my younger sister, set a plate of cold, unbuttered toast on the wooden table. She tilted her head to the left, her eyes tracing the deep lines around my mouth.
“You have to eat something, Thomas,” she said.
I kept my eyes on the oak tree in the backyard, watching a single brown leaf detach and drift toward the grass.
“The ground is too hard for this time of year,” I said.
Claire pulled her grey cardigan tighter around her shoulders.
“The weather does what it wants. Eat the toast.”
I folded my hands neatly in my lap, pressing my palms together until my knuckles turned white.
“I was thinking about the porch light,” I said. “I forgot to turn it off this morning.”
“I turned it off,” she said, her voice dropping to that soft, coaxing tone she reserved for bad news.
She sat down opposite me and reached for the butter knife, then stopped.
“Arthur Vance called my house last night,” she said.
I rubbed my left ring finger, feeling the smooth gold band that felt far too loose now.
“Arthur is seventy,” I said. “He should be retired by now.”
“He said he needs to come by this afternoon,” Claire said.
“He was Emily’s attorney, Claire. There is nothing left to sign.”
“He was very specific, Thomas. He said it was about her estate.”
I did not answer her. I looked back out the window at the empty bird feeder swaying in the October wind.
We walked out to the backyard after the sun cleared the roofline. The grass was damp, catching on the cuffs of my trousers as we neared the fence.
Three weeks ago, we had stood by the dried rosebushes under a canvas canopy, and Emily had held my hand so tightly her fingernails left red marks in my palm.
“She looked beautiful that day,” Claire said, though she kept her eyes on the gravel path.
“She was tired,” I said. “But she did not want to postpone it.”
“You only had four months together, Thomas.”
“We had ninety-two days,” I said.
Claire stopped near the rosebushes, tilting her head to the left as she looked at the dead blooms.
“Do you think she knew?” Claire asked.
“She knew she was sick, Claire. We both did.”
“No,” Claire said. “I mean, do you think she knew how much she was leaving behind for you to clean up?”
I looked down at my shoes, rubbing my ring finger again.
“I am a history teacher,” I said. “I am used to sorting through what people leave behind.”
“This is different,” Claire said. “You look like you are waiting for a bell to ring.”
A car horn sounded from the front of the house, quiet but distinct.
“That will be Arthur,” I said.
Arthur Vance was already standing on the top step of the porch when we rounded the corner of the house. He adjusted his gold wire spectacles on his nose as I approached, his posture rigid.
In his right hand, he held a square cardboard box wrapped in heavy brown paper and tied with a thick green rubber band.
“Thomas,” Arthur said, his voice dry and precise. “Claire.”
“Arthur,” I said. “We were not expecting you to drive out here yourself.”
“I had a specific instruction,” Arthur said.
He looked at Claire, then back at me, his fingers tightening on the edges of the box.
“Emily visited my office four days before the wedding,” Arthur said.
“She did not mention any legal business to me,” I said.
Arthur adjusted his spectacles again, his eyes steady behind the glass.
“She made me promise to wait until the ground was settled, Thomas.”
“The ground?” I asked.
“Those were her exact words,” Arthur said. “She was very clear that you were not to receive this while she was alive.”
He held the box out to me. It was heavier than it looked, the weight shifting slightly inside as I took it from his hands.
“What is in it, Arthur?” Claire asked, stepping closer to my shoulder.
“My duties as her executor do not include discussing the contents of her personal files,” Arthur said.
He turned toward his sedan, then paused on the bottom step.
“I have fulfilled my obligation,” Arthur said.
“Arthur, wait,” I said. “Did she write anything down?”
“Everything she wanted to say is in the box, Thomas,” he said, and then he walked down the driveway.
The house was dark by the time Claire finally went home to her husband. I did not turn on the lamps, preferring the grey light that filtered through the sheer curtains.
I sat on the edge of the sofa, the brown box resting on my knees like a weight. The cardboard was cold to the touch.