After Everyone Went Home

Bennett helped choose his mother's clothes that morning.

Clara stood beside him at the wardrobe, holding a cream blouse Eleanor had liked. When he couldn't decide between two scarves, she said his mother would have refused both.

He put them back.

There were calls, arrangements, visitors. He did what was necessary and forgot to eat unless someone put food in his hand.

Clara had finished her housekeeping shifts by then. She came each day anyway. Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes she sat beside him while he answered letters, her foot resting against his beneath the desk.

At the funeral, he watched people talk about Eleanor as if she had already become a fixed collection of qualities. Elegant. Generous. Devoted.

He wanted someone to mention that she cheated at cards.

Afterward, Clara told the gardener Eleanor had blamed him for obeying her instructions. The man laughed, then covered his face.

Bennett had to walk away.

By evening, the house was quiet. Clara found him outside the study.

"I'm going home," she said. "Will you eat something before you go to bed?"

"I'll ask the kitchen."

She waited.

"Would you like me to come tomorrow?"

He looked at her coat, the bag over her shoulder. All those evenings she had stayed past her shift. All those nights he had reached for her because the room frightened him.

"You don't need to keep doing this," he said.

Her face changed.

"Doing what?"

"Coming back because you're worried about me. You have your own life."

"I thought you were part of it."

He knew he should reach for her. Instead, he stood there, suddenly unable to bear needing one more person who could disappear.

"You should take some time," he said.

Clara watched him for a long moment.

"If you want me to go, you can say it."

"I didn't say that."

"You haven't asked me to stay, either."

He looked toward the stairs.

When he turned back, she had taken a step away.

"Call me when you know what you want to say," she told him.

She kissed his cheek, which was somehow worse than leaving in anger.

For six days, he did not call.

He worked. He met the attorneys handling Richard's case. He read a preliminary proposal about withdrawing from the most dangerous parts of the Hale organization, argued with two senior men, and sent them away without agreement.

At night, he passed his mother's room and kept walking.

On the seventh evening, he found the lemon cake container at the back of the freezer.

Someone had labeled it in Clara's handwriting.

For Eleanor, if she wants it.

Bennett sat at the kitchen table until Marcus came looking for him.

"You could call her," Marcus said.

"I know."

"Right. I'll leave you to your very successful alternative."

Bennett looked up. Marcus didn't smile.

He called Clara before he could find another reason not to.

She answered on the fifth ring.

"Hello?"

He had rehearsed nothing. It was probably the only reason he managed to speak.

"I miss you. I handled the other night badly, and I'm sorry."

Clara was quiet.

"I thought about calling," he continued. "Then I thought you'd be better off if I left you alone. It was easier to tell myself that than risk hearing you say it."

"You hurt me, Bennett."

"I know."

"I wasn't working when I held your hand at the funeral."

He closed his eyes.

"I know that, too. Can I see you?"

She took a breath.

"Tomorrow. There's a diner near my apartment. I'll send the address."

He arrived early and waited outside.

Clara came around the corner carrying a cloth shopping bag. He reached for it, then paused.

She handed it to him.

They sat in a booth with a split vinyl seat. Bennett ordered his own breakfast and waited while Clara stirred her coffee.

"I can't be the person you want close only when something hurts," she said.

"I want you when nothing is happening. I've been missing you telling me my coffee is bad. I wanted to ask what you did on Friday."

"Laundry," she said.

He let out an unsteady laugh.

"I would have liked hearing about that."

Her mouth moved, almost a smile.

"There was a very serious dispute over a dryer."

"Did you win?"

"Eventually."

He reached across the table, leaving his hand open.

"I'd like to take you to dinner again. And I'd like you to tell me when I'm shutting you out, even if I make it unpleasant."

"I probably will."

"I was counting on that."

She studied him before putting her hand in his.

"Dinner," she said. "We'll start there."