He gave me a long, pleasant look, the look a man gives a stain on a rug.
“Hil,” he said.
“You’re looking well.”
“That’s Neal’s watch,” I said.
My voice shook.
Ted glanced at his wrist, and for the barest moment, his smile slipped.
“It’s mine.”
“Mother gave it to me.”
“It was in the hospital bag,” I said.
“You told me it was lost.”
“Hilary,” said Jeanette softly, “Neal’s things are Overton things.”
“It was my husband’s watch.”
“I bought it.”
“I paid seven thousand nine hundred dollars for that watch, and I had it engraved.”
I was crying now, and I hated it.
“Turn it over, Ted.”
“Read the back.”
“Please.”
A rustle ran through the nearest rows.
Ted yanked his sleeve down over the watch.
“You’re making a scene,” he said, very low.
“Not here.”
“Not today.”
Jeanette moved.
She was seventy-one years old, and she was quick.
