When the heavy front door finally opened, Garrett’s daughter Margaret walked in first. She was forty-eight, with her dark hair cut into a sharp bob that ended exactly at her jawline.
She stepped toward me and leaned in, wrapping her arms around my upper back but keeping her shoulders stiff and completely straight, leaving a clear gap of cold air between our coats.
“It is so nice to finally meet you, Eleanor,” Margaret said, her voice clipped and dry.
Her brother, Daniel, stepped up next, looking down at his brown leather shoes. He was forty-five, with his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets, looking as though he had been pulled into a principal’s office.
He took his right hand out just long enough to offer me a quick, firm shake that felt like a transaction at the bank.
“Good evening,” Daniel mumbled, already turning his shoulder toward the hallway closet to hang his jacket.
We sat at the long mahogany table, where a silver roast chicken sat on a heavy platter. Garrett had set out his late wife’s silver-plated cake stand on the sideboard, though it was empty now except for a stack of small linen napkins.
