He knew that. Of course he did. He wasn’t senile enough quite yet to think this robe of pink terry cloth with white piping and white flowers embroidered on the pockets was a man’s robe.The thing was, it was so damned comfortable. Once, by accident, in the days just after Madeline’s death, he’d accidentally pulled it on after a shower, not discovering his mistake until afternoon, and even then he hadn’t taken it off because it brought Madeline back to him so forcefully.“I’d be glad to pack up Mrs. Madison’s clothes and take them to the church thrift sale for you,” their cleaning lady, Dorothy, had offered, more than once.Mont knew she was well intentioned, but he found her infuriating and intrusive. For God’s sake! Why would he want to get rid of Madeline’s things? They still held her scent, and a life full of memories surrounded him whenever he entered their bedroom and saw them, through the open closet door, hanging in the same colorful disarray in which Madeline, in her later years, had lived her life.Now Mont shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen for his standard breakfast of orange juice and Grape-Nuts.
