Her Name Is Rose by Christine Breen

important master class next week. She wouldn’t be in touch. She was like that. She needed her own space and she’d be coming home soon for a short holiday anyway. Best to say nothing. Just get it done. I’ll buy a phone card, she thought, and phone Tess and the clinic.
    There was a knock at the door and Iris opened it to see Grace—now in a cream muumuu with a thick leather belt girdling her waist. On her wrist was a square, gold bangle. “Toasted chicken sandwich with lettuce. Potato chips. A pot of tea. And a half bottle of red. How’s that? Nice, right?” She laid the tray down on the desk.
    â€œVery nice.” There was no sign of lemonade.
    â€œAnd just what the doctor ordered,” Grace said, stepping backward to the door and lingering there. She straightened her belt and looked at Iris a moment. Iris wasn’t sure if she was expected to taste the famous chicken sandwich right then and there. Grace didn’t stir.
    â€œWill you join me in a glass?” Iris said at last. She didn’t really know why she’d said it; she was tired and hungry and needed to gather herself for the morning’s mission of tracking down Hilary. But then it seemed inviting Grace in was the right thing to do, and Iris liked to do things that were right. Because here was a woman like herself, although a decade older. Widows in arms. A sort of ally, Iris thought.
    â€œWell, yes, that might be fun!” Grace’s eyes broadened. “Yes! I’ll be right back,” she said and scooted down the stairs. Moments later, with a second glass and a full bottle in her hands, Grace reappeared. “Here we go.” She unscrewed the top and poured the glasses. “You save this one for later.” She placed the unopened half bottle on the bureau, then pulled the chair around from the desk and settled, somewhat ungracefully, down onto it. She sat only a moment. “Grace Hale, where are your manners?” She popped up. “You sit here. You have your supper at the desk … and…” She hesitated. “I’ll sit there.” She indicated the leather armchair and thumped down again, dislodging a cushion embroidered with a tennis ball and racket.
    Iris angled the chair at the desk and sat facing Grace. She began to eat the sandwich, but thinking now—what unusual accommodation Kerry the redhead from the information kiosk had booked her.
    â€œThis was Bob’s chair.” Grace said quietly, and she picked up the cushion that had fallen, hugged it for a moment, then tucked it back behind her. “Five years and I’m still getting used to his not being here.” She looked at Iris. “Do you know what I mean?” But before Iris could answer that yes, she did know, she did understand, that her Luke was gone, too, Grace went on. “Bob was in investments. What I don’t know about derivatives and hedge funds, and options and futures!” She laughed and patted her knee with her free hand in a manly way as if Bob’s gestures came with inhabiting his chair. In between quick swallows of wine she told Iris how Bob would come home in the evenings and spill out all the office politics and whatnot and how she listened to him like it was the most important thing in the world. How on weekends they played tennis together in the park and, having no children themselves, they had traveled to see their nieces and nephews. Before he died they’d taken a cruise to Alaska and seen the bear and the salmon.
    â€œBob was my world,” she said, and turned toward the open door, and Iris got the feeling Grace expected Bob would somehow appear. When Iris had finished her sandwich and emptied her glass, Grace sprung up and refilled it.
    â€œI’ll take this away,” she said and removed the tray to the hallway. “The tea’s cold, I’m afraid. Would you like another?”
    â€œNo. That’s fine. Wine’s good.” Iris felt