At the airport Daniel discovered he had packed his reading glasses in the bag he had just checked.
Iris looked at him.
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Your breathing has become expressive.”
She laughed, then felt the laugh catch behind the parting she had been trying not to begin too early.
They stood near the security entrance while people passed with cases, coats and the purposeful faces of those who had decided travel ought to look efficient. Daniel held his passport and phone. Everything else was out of his hands.
“Call when you’re there,” she said.
“I will.”
“Not from the plane. I don’t need a description of the snack.”
“What if it’s remarkable?”
“Then keep a sample.”
He smiled, but his eyes were serious. He stepped nearer, took her face gently between his hands and kissed her.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
She held his hand until it was time to let go.
Driving home, she cried once at a red light, then reached the next one before she’d found a tissue.
At home, his mug stood beside the sink. She washed it, put it in the cupboard and left the bedroom window open while she changed the sheets. Then she went out to buy food she wanted to eat rather than food selected to survive a week of nobody noticing it.
He called from Oregon late that night.
The hotel room behind him was beige enough to make Iris feel tired on its behalf. His glasses remained in the bag, now safely retrieved, and he looked rumpled in a way no meeting at Hargreaves had allowed.
“Remarkable snack?” she asked.
“Not defensible as food.”
“Disappointing.”
“I’m managing.”
They talked for twenty minutes. He showed her the view from the window, mostly a parking lot. She showed him the plant from Winnie, which had acquired a new leaf or was preparing to accuse her of overwatering. They laughed. Then both grew quiet, aware of the screen between them.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night.”
After the call, Iris went to bed without checking whether he had sent another message. They had spoken. The day could finish.
On Monday, she opened the workroom at nine and found a voicemail from a woman who had attended the farewell evening. A dress needed shortening before a trip. Could Iris look at it that afternoon?
She could. There was a space at three. She gave the woman the appointment and wrote it in the book.
The dress was a dark blue printed cotton, good cloth, badly proportioned for the woman wearing it. She stood behind the screen apologizing for her knees before Iris had seen them.
“You don’t have to show them,” Iris said. “We can mark where you want it.”
“I think I want them shown. That’s the difficulty.”
“Then let’s try.”
They tried three lengths. The second was best. The woman looked at herself in the mirror for a long time, then smiled with the private relief Iris recognized from Mrs. Hallet and from her own green silk.
“That’s much better.”
“Yes.”
“It’s strange what two inches can do.”
“Usually worth checking before you cut.”
The woman laughed and agreed the price.
At four-thirty, Iris closed the door to new work for the day and finished Philip’s daughter’s repair estimate. A lining. More involved than the first jacket, still within what she could do well. She sent the details rather than beginning and hoping the price would be understood afterward.
At home, the house agent had news. The inspection found the roof old but not failing. The buyers had revised their offer to four hundred and ten thousand, with a five-thousand-dollar allowance toward future work. Both agents considered it a reasonable conclusion to the negotiations.
Iris read the figures twice and asked for the full terms in writing.
Colin called later. They agreed to proceed, subject to the remaining conditions and their legal advice. Neither celebrated too loudly. There was still work to do before the sale became money either could use.
Afterward she sent Daniel a message.
House offer agreed. Nothing completed yet. Feels enormous.
He replied while she was making supper.
It is enormous. Can I call in an hour?
She looked at the pan, the meal she was looking forward to, the book waiting on the table.
Make it ninety minutes, she wrote. I’m eating first.
He sent back a single word.
Good.
She smiled and put the phone down.