Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
From the front of the house, the sound of a car engine starting broke the quiet afternoon.
We both stood up, brushing the dark Texas soil from our knees as we walked toward the side gate.
Through the black iron rails, I watched the white sports car back slowly down the long curved driveway, its lights reflecting off the wet pavement.
Sable did not look toward the garden as she reached the street and turned the wheel.
The sound of Sable’s car tires rolling down the driveway for the last time faded into the distance.
The kitchen was quiet at nine the next morning, the autumn sun cutting through the high glass windows to strike the mahogany sideboard. Martha set a can of silver polish on the counter, her wool shawl slipping slightly over her shoulders. I picked up the tarnished silver coffee pot, the one Gordon had bought us for our twenty-fifth anniversary, and dipped a soft cloth into the gray paste.
Martha began to rub the silver handle, her fingers moving in quick, rhythmic circles. She adjusted her shawl and looked around the wide, empty room, her eyes lingering on the copper pans hanging above the island.
