Ruth closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“You knew at our wedding.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Carter remembered the receiving line, Ruth’s hand cold inside hers, the pleading shake of her head when recognition passed between them.
Later, beside the coatroom, Ruth had whispered that Lauren knew nothing about the house. She had asked for one more kindness.
Mrs. Carter had given it.
“I thought you were asking for privacy,” she told her now. “I didn’t know you were asking me to become a stranger.”
Ruth lowered herself into a chair.
“I didn’t know how to explain it.”
Lauren remained standing.
“Explain what?”
“The shelter was full that night. Someone there knew your mother-in-law. She had a spare room.”
Ruth’s eyes settled on the hallway.
“You slept upstairs. I slept beside you with my shoes on for almost a week.”
“Why?”
“In case we had to leave again.”
Lauren pulled out a chair but did not sit. The wooden back pressed against her thighs.
Mrs. Carter remembered those shoes. Cheap brown flats, one sole coming loose. Ruth had kept them pointed toward the bedroom door.
“I told you we were on a holiday,” Ruth continued. “Then, when you were older, I said a shelter. You stopped asking.”
“You let me sit at Christmas dinner with her.”
“I know.”
“You let me tell you she was difficult.”
Ruth looked up sharply.
Mrs. Carter’s son shifted in his chair.
“Ruth, there’s something else we need to clear up.”
He sounded as though he were beginning a work meeting. His mother’s expression stopped him.
She addressed Ruth herself.
“Where did you expect me to sleep tonight?”
Ruth frowned.
“Here. Lauren said you were trying the apartment tomorrow. She said you wanted me to stay while you decided.”
Mrs. Carter looked at Lauren.
There it was: the plan, finally spoken without its pleasant wrapping.
Ruth turned toward her daughter.
“You told me she invited me.”
Lauren’s fingers tightened on the chair.
“I was going to make it work.”
“Did you invite me?” Ruth asked Mrs. Carter.
“No.”
Ruth pushed her chair back.
