I sat down. I unfolded my napkin. My hands were shaking a little.
We ate chicken salad sandwiches. They were good. She said she’d made them herself, from her mother’s recipe, with grapes and walnuts. We talked. Really talked, for the first time in eight years. About the move. About her new apartment in Oregon, which had a window that looked out at a
mountain. About Susan’s kids, who were in college now. About the young family who was buying the house.
“Three little boys,” she said. “I told them about the bird’s nest in the attic window. The father said
he’d leave it.”
We talked about Willa. About her senior year. About the regional contest and her little house with fourteen windows.
“She’s applying to the architecture program,” I said. “At the state university. It’s her dream school. She’s been working on her portfolio for a year.”
