The Wistful Dinner
The light in the attic had the quality of old varnish, yellow and sticky. Chantal LaCour sat with her back against the wall, the bank book open in her lap. The account was frozen, a fact she had known for three months, but the number of the house, one hundred and nine of Widow's Landing, was the only thing that still felt solid. Outside, the north wind hit the glass with a sound like a...
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