At 10:55, I parked at the curb in front of 418 Linden Street.
At 10:59, I walked up the porch steps.
At 11:00 on the dot, I raised my hand to knock on the blue door with the brass pineapple.
For the first time in eight years, I knocked. I didn’t use my key.
She opened the door right away. She was wearing a soft gray sweater and a string of pearls. She looked at me in my dark jeans and my blue blouse. She looked at the cookies with the ridiculous
ribbon.
“You look lovely, Carly,” she said. “Come in.”
Most of the house was empty. Our footsteps echoed down the long hall.
But the kitchen had the round table by the window and two chairs. And on the table, there was a white tablecloth. And two real plates, china plates with little blue flowers around the edges. And two real glasses. And real cloth napkins, folded in triangles.
