Now she was gone.
The funeral was arranged quickly.
Everyone who had known Nancy came to say goodbye.
After the service, Pete asked George and me to remain for a few minutes.
Once the others had left, he looked completely exhausted.
“I hate asking this.”
George said nothing.
“I don’t have enough money to pay for the funeral.”
Neither of us responded.
Pete named the amount.
It was larger than any sum he had requested before.
My stomach sank.
Part of me wanted to refuse.
Another part could not imagine denying a man on the day he buried his wife.
George closed his eyes.
Then he asked quietly, “When do you need it?”
He looked toward me.
I gave the smallest nod.
Neither of us wanted to lend Pete another dollar.
But how could we refuse someone who had just lost the person he loved?
So we gave him the money.
A week after the funeral, Pete called again.
The following afternoon, we drove to his house.
He had not returned yet.
“I have to meet with the solicitor,” he explained over the phone.
“The key’s under the flowerpot.”
We let ourselves inside.
I began collecting a few keepsakes for George.
Then he suddenly stopped in the hallway.
“That’s strange,” he murmured.
“What is?”
“I’ve never seen that room open before.”
One door stood slightly ajar.
Beyond it was a home office.
Designer furniture.
Floor-to-ceiling walnut shelves.
A massive mahogany desk.
Original artwork covering the walls.
I stared in disbelief.
How could someone who claimed he could not repay a debt maintain a room like this?
George’s jaw tightened.
Without speaking, he walked inside.
Most drawers contained ordinary records.
Bills.
Insurance documents.
Bank statements.
Then we found a black binder.
Across its cover, written in marker, was one word.
George.
I looked at my husband.
“Should we?”
He did not answer.
He simply opened it.
“What?” I whispered.
George said nothing.
I moved beside him.
At the top of the first page was a date from eleven years earlier.
