I stared at him.
“And then?”
“Open my study.”
“Grandpa—”
“Let Nora take it from there.”
He tired after that.
I sat beside him while the light faded, listening to rain and the machine and the rough catch in his breathing.
Just before he fell asleep, he opened his eyes.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“The blue tin in my desk.
That part’s just for you.”
The day before the funeral, Nora called.
“Your father has contacted me,” she said.
“He says he’ll be at the house Saturday at nine to begin transferring belongings.”
I gripped the phone.
“Whose belongings?”
“He wasn’t specific.”
“Can he do that?”
“No.”
The certainty in her voice steadied me.
“Your grandfather asked whether you would permit Marianne and me to be present.
We can arrive early through the kitchen entrance.”
“Why Marianne?”
There was a pause.
“Because she needs to see something for herself.
