Open Door

The front door was already open when Emily got there.

A damp gust hit her face as she stepped in, and the first thing she saw was a man in a neon vest backing out of the foyer with a desk between him and the wall. Her mother’s writing desk. Mahogany, small drawers on the left, brass pulls worn smooth where Elizabeth had worried her thumb while thinking.

Patricia stood by the stairs with a clipboard, one hand at her throat. On her wrist, glittering against a black sweater, hung Elizabeth’s anniversary necklace.

Emily stopped so hard her shoes squeaked on the tile. “Take that off.”

Patricia looked down like she had forgotten what she was wearing. Then she touched the necklace, slow and careful, and turned a sweet face toward her. “Emily, don’t make this into a scene. It’s just jewelry.”

“That was my mother’s.”

Richard came out of the dining room, tie loosened, wristwatch in his hand. He glanced at the movers like they were a plumbing issue. “Patricia is organizing. We’re clearing space.”

“Clearing space?” Emily looked past him at the bare wall where the old sideboard had stood. “You moved her desk.”

“It’s an old piece,” Patricia said. “The finish is chipped, and we have no room for things that don’t fit the house anymore.”

Emily pressed her palm to her breastbone. “It fit for twenty years.”