The walls held no color. The curtains were drawn. The furniture sat in the arrangements of a different life, a life that had belonged to a different woman, and nobody had moved anything or added anything or changed anything. As if changing even one small thing might mean admitting that the woman who had arranged it was not coming back. The children are at the neighbors," Mrs.
Harmon said low. I'll bring them home this afternoon. I should tell you. She paused, selected her words. Noah is eight.
He's been angry for 2 years. He bites quick and he holds a grudge. He's tested every woman who set foot in this house. How many have there been? Clara asked.
Three before you. She folded her hands. None of them lasted more than 2 weeks. Clara looked at the entrance hall, at the cold hearth at the far end of the sitting room, at the faded spot on the wall where something had hung and been taken down. And Lily, Mrs.
Harmon's expression shifted. Lily's six, she barely speaks. Not since her mama died. She stopped, started again. She used to sing, "They tell me all day long that child sang.
She hasn't made a sound like that in almost 2 years." Clara set her suitcase down. "Thank you, Mrs. Harmon," she said. "I'll take it from here."
Mrs. Harmon looked at her for a moment longer than was strictly polite, like she was deciding something. Then she nodded, picked up her coat and her bag from the chair by the door, and left. Clara stood alone in the entrance hall for exactly 30 seconds. Then she went and built a fire in the kitchen hearth, put water on to boil, found the neglected pantry, assessed what was in it, and started cooking.
Ethan came back inside an hour later and stopped in the kitchen doorway. His expression was complicated, not softened exactly, but something in it had shifted slightly, like a man who'd prepared for a particular fight, and found the room rearranged. The kitchen was warm. The smell of something cooking moved through the house in a way it probably hadn't in months. "I didn't ask you to cook," he said.
"No." Clara agreed, not looking up from the pot. But your children will be home this afternoon, and children need a warm meal when they come in from the cold. I assumed you'd want the same. He was quiet for a moment.
"Mrs. Harmon would have seen to supper." "Mrs. Harmon is on her way back to town," Clara said. So now I'll see to it.
He didn't answer that. She heard him move, heard the creak of floorboards going toward the sitting room, then coming back. "I want to be clear about something," he said from the doorway again. She turned and looked at him. "This is a business arrangement," he said.