Zach watched his wife’s face instantly change from serene, satisfied weariness to taut stress as she lurched up to reach for the phone.

“Mom? How are you?” Unconsciously, Bett pushed back her cloud of yellow hair, jerked off the couch like the coil of a spring and started winding and rewinding the phone cord around her finger.

Zach began piling empty plates on the tray, resisting the urge to clatter them together. Bett had always called her mother at least weekly; lately, Elizabeth had taken to calling every other day. Zach was fond of his mother-in-law and certainly felt sympathy for her trouble adjusting since Chet’s death. But that sympathy had been gradually eroding away for months. Bett was torn apart every time the phone rang.

“Stop crying.” Bett’s gentle voice was laced with anxiety. “Mom, you can’t keep doing this. It’s been well over a year. Did you get involved with that women’s club you said you were going to join?”

Silently, Zach carted the trays to the kitchen. By the time he’d taken care of the few dishes, Bett had the phone cord wrapped around her waist and one slim hand was raking through her hair. She was facing away from him as he stood in the doorway. Her spine was as taut as a violin string, and when she half turned again her eyes were tightly closed.

“Mom, I know the house has memories for you. Have you even asked Martha if she wanted to move in with you? Since her husband died, she’s had the same problem sleeping nights, hasn’t she?” Bett twisted the cord around and around her finger until her finger turned white from lack of circulation, then uncoiled it impatiently. “No, of course I’m not saying you should sell the house if you don’t want to. It’s just that if staying there is still making you unhappy after all this time…”

Zach set a glass of sun tea on the coffee table for Bett, and carried his own over to the fieldstone fireplace. He leaned back against the rough stone, staring outside at the last of the sunset.