Michael rose and walked to the nearest window.
“I don’t want to go home.”
Clara joined him.
“Then we will not.”
“Where do we go?”
She thought of the small cottage near the lake that had belonged to William’s parents. It had been empty for years, but the windows still looked toward the water, and the kitchen still held the blue enamel kettle Clara used every winter.
“Home,” she said.
Michael looked at her.
“Your house?”
“Our house,” Clara answered. “For as long as you need it.”
He rested his forehead against the glass.
“I don’t know how to be here without feeling stupid.”
“You are not stupid.”
“I ignored everything.”
“You trusted someone who worked hard to be trusted.”
“I lied to you.”
“You were trying to build a life. You were not trying to hurt me.”
“I said things about you.”
“I said things about you too.”
He turned.
Clara’s eyes were wet.
“I told myself you were still a child because I was afraid of the day you would no longer need me. That was not fair.”
Michael looked at her for several seconds.
Then he put his arms around her.
She held him tightly.
They stayed that way until the rain grew heavier, until the last member of the quartet slipped through the doors, until the ballroom lights reflected in the wet glass like distant stars.
Three months later, Peter Hale pleaded guilty to fraud, forgery, and conspiracy. The recovered accounts restored money to six elderly clients, including Clara. He received a prison sentence that would carry him into old age.
Olivia accepted a reduced sentence after giving prosecutors the location of the remaining records and testifying against Peter. She sent Michael one letter. He read it once and placed it in a drawer without answering.
She wrote that she had loved him in the only way she knew how.
Michael said that was the problem.
