She made a pot of tea for herself, and as I watched, her distress surfaced through her automated gestures. She put water on to boil but not enough for a single cup, much less the pot, and had to start over. She took a bag of lemons from the steel-faced fridge, ignoring several precut slices, and carved up a new one with a dull butter knife, butchering the lemon in the process. She grabbed a glass the size of a tankard and poured my milk into it until it overflowed. It was not a comfortable performance to watch.

Finally, her Christmas-bright dress splotched with the debris from her efforts, she loaded up a tray, moved it from her counter to mine, and unloaded it.

“Sugar?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I’ll just take the milk.”

Her perfect, brittle smile twitched just slightly. “Of course. How silly, I forgot.”

I reached gingerly for the milk and slid it toward me without spilling too much. Mrs. Phillips perched on a stool and began poking at the tea bag inside the pot with the butter knife-she’d forgotten a spoon.

“Do you feel you can talk a little?” I asked.

She didn’t answer at first but just kept jabbing away. Finally the bag punctured, releasing a flurry of tea leaves, and she stopped.

She bit her lower lip and put both her hands to her cheeks. Her eyes were dry and terribly, terribly sad.

“Yes, I’m sorry about all this.”

I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. You should see where I usually go for breakfast.” I paused, and she placed her hands flat on the white counter. Her wedding band, unlike Thelma Reitz’s, rested around her finger-an attractive and impermanent piece of jewelry. “Why was your husband out there tonight?”

“He went to pay the ransom for our dog, Junior. Jamie was very attached to him. He even carried around pictures of him.”