"It's good."
"Like how good."
"Like," I said, "I've been eating Mrs. Tillotson's lasagna in my head every night and throwing it at her house."
He laughed. It came out of him like a hiccup, surprised, and then he put his face in his hands and laughed harder, and it turned into something else for a while, and I came around the table and held on to him while it did.
I ran into her on Monday.
I hadn't meant to. I'd gone to the mailbox kiosk at the entrance to Larkhaven, a long gray-roofed structure by the pond with a corkboard for HOA notices on the end, because it was the first time all week I'd remembered we had mail. Number 87. I'd had to look it up. And Bobbie was there, pinning a flyer to the corkboard about the fall leaf collection schedule, in a fleece and walking shoes with a pedometer clipped to her waistband.
She turned around. For a second, just a second, before her face arranged itself, I saw something cross it that I can only describe as alarm. Then it was gone, and she smiled.
"Gisele. How are you holding up?"
"We're managing."
"And Isidore?"
"He's managing too."
"I've been praying for him," she said. "I mean that." She pressed the last pushpin into the corner of the flyer with her thumb. "I hope you don't think I was singling you out. In my email. I'm required to address safety concerns. It's a fiduciary responsibility. I'd have done the same for anyone."