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hardened.
    Ted murmured and she shook her head.
    Sandy red curls framed a pale, oval face. She was shorter than he remembered, and thinner. Gauntly thin. Time had diminished the woman who, two years ago, had set his fate.
    Lillian preceded Ted up the porch steps. “This is my father-in-law, Bill Iver.”
    Lillian accepted Bill’s outstretched hand, hers quickly becoming lost in the man’s over-sized paw. “Mr. Iver.” Her voice still held the familiar timbre, but it lacked the force of authority; the power had been stripped. The darling of the court would no longer influence the fate of others.
    “Please, it’s Bill. Not much formality around here.”
    Ted turned to introduce him.
    Life narrowed, as though all of reality was being sent through a funnel, and only the critical essence slipped through the narrow hole at the end: he and Lillian. Nothing else existed. Not the sounds of traffic, the music from the square, the other men on the porch. All were all gone. Left were just he and the woman he had been taught to hate. An unquenchable fire blazed in his chest.
    Over the past months, he had visualized this moment thousands of times: how it would feel to have her in front of him, to force her to meet his eyes. Dozens of lines had been practiced, and he had crafted her response to each. Imagination had strengthened him as he had waited.
    Now, well-rehearsed words lay heavy, unsaid, as he stared into hazel eyes that shouted sadness more loudly than words ever could. But she didn’t recognize him.
    As the screen door screeched, Roger’s private world vanished.
    “I’ll show you to your room,” Ted said, standing in front of the open front door, “and when you’re settled, feel free to join us on the porch…if you want to.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “You don’t have to, but if you want to.”
    Lillian glanced toward the drive. “What about my car?”
    “I’ll move it to the back for you.” The floor creaked under Bill’s weight.
    Hesitating, Lillian finally dropped her keys in Bill’s outstretched hand.
    “I’ll haul your luggage to your room, too.”
    The first time Roger had been in the house was when Ted and Trina had invited him for lunch after church. At that time, the entry walls had been sixties orange. Scraps of plaster molding hung from the ceiling, more gone than present. Deep scrapes had created raw wounds in the hardwood floor. The house had felt old. Dying.
    All things have a season. Wasn’t that what Preacher Steve had said in one of the few sermons Roger had actually listened to? A time to live, a time to die? Over the past few months, the necrotic house had been reborn.
    As soon as he entered the house, the hair on the back of his neck bristled. Glancing around, he spotted a vase of fresh red roses on the table in the center of the foyer, most likely Trina’s touch. Childhood memories of sneaking through a gap in the backyard fence played with his mind. The fence had been covered with twining roses, and the gashes on his arms always gave away his forbidden escape.
    “You look just as I imagined,” Lillian said to Ted.
    “Oh, really?” A tinge of heat colored the man’s cheeks.
    “When I heard you were a painter, I imagined you as tall and lanky.”
    “The starving artist concept?”
    “Maybe.” She turned away. “It’s just what came to mind.”
    Ted cleared his throat. “Well…to the right and left are the parlors. Feel free to use either one whenever you want.”
    The room on the right held an overstuffed couch and two chairs and, just inside the door, a worn leather recliner. A comfortable place for the family. On the left, period-style, high-backed chairs covered with turquoise fabric, and thin-legged end tables had been arranged to face the fireplace. Too museum-like for Roger’s taste, but it seemed a lot of ladies preferred it.
    After one more glance toward the road, Ted turned to Lillian. “Let me show you your room.”
    The entry was separated from