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breath. The rock was lodged there, but somehow a tiny
bit smaller. For an instant she saw a glimpse of herself when all
this was over: attractive, smiling, lovable. And younger: how
was that going to happen? Wake up, Merle.
    The doorbell rang. She rubbed her cheeks, and marched
to the door, eager to pounce on another cheesy casserole or gooey
dessert. Betsy stood on the porch in her clogs and barn jacket.
Faithful friend and cheerer-upper, Betsy had been stopping by each
evening, when she knew things grew too quiet. They had been friends
since their kids were in preschool, and still jogged together once
in awhile. As Merle made them both herbal tea, Betsy’s eyes turned
toward the thumping ceiling.
    “ He got in a fight at school. I
probably sent him back too soon.” Merle set down her cup. “I heard
the will today.” She summarized the inheritance, such as it
was.
    Betsy's eyes widened. “Wait — no trust fund for
Tris?”
    “ I guess he never got around to
it.”
    The word hung in the air: Bastard. “But what
about you? Will you stay at Legal Aid?”
    “ For the time being. I’ve been
trying to think. Do you know anybody else whose husband died young
like Harry?”
    “ Well. You remember Margo
Willoughby. She was about forty-five when Gus died.” Betsy bit off
her next sentence as they both remembered Margo had flipped out,
treated herself to a bad face-lift then married a guy who owned a
strip club in New Jersey.
    Merle drained her tea cup and smiled. “Time to
perfect that cannoli recipe?”
     
    She took the file Troy Lester gave her to bed. The
obituary for Harry’s parents was something he’d never shared.
Despite his material generosity he hadn’t really been the sharing
type, always buzzing off to his meetings and reading endless
financial newspapers. He’d rarely sat down in the kitchen to chat
like she’d just done with Betsy. Had he ever seen this
clipping?
     
    New York Herald Tribune. March 2, 1954.
    Weston Montgomery Strachie and his French bride,
Marie-Emilie, died tragically on a rainy night as they returned to
their home on Long Island from a romantic outing in Atlantic City.
Their auto skidded off the road on a curve and struck a large oak
tree that has claimed the lives of more than a few drivers over the
years. Husband and wife were pronounced dead at the scene. They
leave behind their four-year-old son, Harold.
    Weston, 37, was a devoted husband and father. He met
his bride in France after his Army service during World War II. His
business as a wine and spirits importer brought him frequently to
the country. They married in 1947, and their son was born several
years later. They moved back to the United States in 1952, settling
in Levittown.
    Marie-Emilie, 26, who preferred to be called Emilie,
will be remembered as a sunny, lively girl, a devoted wife and
mother. She will be sorely missed by all who knew her.
    Weston is survived by his loving sister, Amanda
Wilson and her husband, Sylvester, who have opened their hearts and
home to little Harold, and by his mother, Louise Strachie, of
Buffalo. Marie-Emilie is survived by many relations in France.

    There was another, smaller announcement in the Times . The only new information was Marie-Emilie’s maiden
name, Chevalier. She reread the Herald Tribune obit; it had
the touch of Aunt Amanda, last seen in a dinner plate hat at
Harry’s funeral. After Sylvester died she traveled the world with
friends from her days as a dress buyer at Macy’s.
    “ Marie-Emilie Chevalier,” Merle
whispered aloud. Was she really sunny and lively, or was that just
Amanda’s drama? Merle closed her eyes. She’d missed having a
mother-in-law, all these years. Amanda had played the part but not
exactly, not being the maternal type. Merle tried to imagine Harry
as a little child, round and smiling, playing in the fields of
lavender — the way she imagined the French countryside, bucolic and
fragrant.
    The bass and drums of music videos thumped through
the