I put on my navy wool dress, pearl studs, and the silver brooch Winston gave me on our twenty-fifth anniversary, a small etched gull in flight. Not because I am theatrical, but because some battles deserve dignity in dress.
At two-forty we drove to my house. Mara. Detective Ruiz. A uniformed officer. The locksmith in his van three blocks away. And me.
Tiffany answered when Ruiz knocked. She had dressed to impress the investors in my house, cream trousers and cashmere, candles lit in the entryway as if stealing a widow’s refuge required ambiance. Her face changed in layers when she saw who stood on the porch.
“Rosalind,” she said, recovering fast. “What is all this?”
“My house,” I said, “being returned to me.”
Detective Ruiz presented his identification and informed all unauthorized occupants that they must gather their belongings and leave immediately.
Her smile came back, thinner. “My husband owns this property.”
