But the knocking came again.
When I opened the door, a man in his sixties stood on my welcome mat. Gray suit. Tan raincoat folded over his arm. He held a brown leather briefcase with both hands, the way people hold something they’ve promised not to drop.
“Mrs. Claire Mercer?” he asked.
It took me a second to realize he meant me. I had been Claire Hale for thirty-four years. I had been Claire Mercer for less than two weeks.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”
“My name is Arthur Vance. I was Julian’s attorney.” He paused. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. If this is about the funeral home bill, I already—”
“It isn’t.” He took a breath. “Julian made me wait until today to tell you the truth about who he really was.”
I stared at him.
“He was very specific,” Arthur said. “Not before the wedding. Not before he passed. Not at the funeral. The day after. He said you’d need one night to grieve him the way you knew him.”
