His entire face reddened. He looked as if he’d been slapped. “Is there anything wrong, dear?” Rose Taylor asked, touching her husband’s sleeve. He flinched and drew away. Rose Taylor’s face crumpled. Her lower lip began trembling. “Oh, my.” She lifted her hand away from the pink cotton material and shook her head. “I don’t... what did I say?” Then her eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth as she understood what Geoffrey thought she’d meant. “Oh, no, darling ...” she stammered. “You can’t think I meant... my comment about being rich... I just meant I’ve been lucky... having this house.... You know I’d never... ever.” Her voice cracked. She ducked her head to one side. I studied the terra-cotta tiles on the floor. They were Italian, like the marble in the hallway, I decided as I watched two small black ants scurrying along a thin line of beige grout. “Of course we know,” Moss Ryan said, hurrying into the breach of Rose’s silence. He had one of those professionally calming voices, the kind religious leaders and doctors cultivate, the kind that makes you want to believe that everything will be all right even when you know it won’t be.
