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half of their nest egg, what could he do about it?
    “And how’s Jenny?”
    Nate had been dating a blond travel agent for the past few years. He liked to tag along on her trips to the Caribbean, sipping complimentary piña coladas while she assessed meals and maître d’s. The two had seemed otherworldy at David’s memorial service, so tan and healthy, death was as remote as the Arctic Circle.
    “We’re seeing other people. She’s in Egypt this week.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Sarah had thought the two of them might get married, Jenny being the only woman who had ever held Nate’s attention for more than a year. But Sarah could not imagine Nate in Egypt, with throngs of beggars jostling at his sleeves. Impoverished crowds were David’s fascination.
    “What have you been up to?” Nate handed her the cream cheese.
    For one brief moment she thought to tell him the truth. To say “I’ve been chasing your brother around grocery stores, and searching for him in bushes.” But Nate wasn’t the sort of man who inspired confidences.
    “I’m getting back to some of my nonprofits. I told the college that I’d organize their Thanksgiving food drive, and I’m on the board for Habitat. We’re raising money for two new houses that are going up this spring.”
    “So . . .” Nate smiled. “What are you raffling?”
    Ah, thought Sarah, how well he knew the do-gooder’s annual routine. “You wouldn’t want any of the prizes. There’s a big Victorian dollhouse, a wedding-ring quilt, things like that.”
    “The prizes don’t matter.” He pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet and tucked it under the tub of chicken salad. “Habitat’s a good cause, and I never expect to win.”
    She gazed into the face of Ulysses S. Grant, thinking how the cash machines never gave out fifties. Nate must be going inside to flirt with the pretty tellers.
    “Have you thought about going back to work?” he asked.
    That’s right, volunteerism never counted as work, did it? She could spend weeks gathering food for the poor, but if she didn’t have a paycheck to show for it at the end of the month, what good was she?
    “I’ll probably get back to some teaching next fall. I was scheduled to cover some British surveys and freshmen comp classes this year, but I passed them off to a colleague after David disappeared. I thought I’d take a year to figure out what I want to do next.”
    “It’s important to stay busy.” His words were automatic.
    Sarah shrugged as she wiped crumbs from the corners of her mouth. For her, keeping busy had never been an antidote to grief. She had tried it, after her second miscarriage. She had doubled her course load, turning to Shakespeare and Wordsworth for consolation. But she had been impatient with the students—their preference for Jim Beam over James Joyce. How careless they were with their precious lives.
    So now she had taken the opposite course, allowing herself months of seclusion and contemplation—just what Nate would deplore. How appalled he would be to know of the many hours she had spent over the past few weeks, lying in bed reading and reminiscing, her movements slowing to the pace of a sloth. For the rest of their meal she ate in silence, barely attentive to Nate’s economic forecasts as she watched the unraked leaves lift and twirl throughout the yard. One last swallow of lemonade, and she put her napkin on the table and slid back her chair.
    “Let’s start with the clothes.”
    Inside the bedroom Sarah gestured toward the closet—“David was about your size”—but of course it wasn’t true. David and Nate were the same height, and in college their bodies might have been similar, but Nate belonged to a gym and kept his muscles as taut as his face, while David, a weekly squash player, had never chosen to battle the half inch of flesh that sagged over the top of his swimming trunks.
    Nate did not mention this as he entered David’s closet. Jackets hung to the right, shirts