The mid-morning sun was warm against his shoulders and he felt this was a good omen. It was the first time in the month since Ruth had died that he’d been conscious of the sun, of its warmth, of the fact that it was there at all. He heard the telephone ringing in the library, a sharp abrasive sound against his nerve ends. Except that it annoyed him, he paid no attention to it, and after a moment, it stopped ringing. Either McEsters or one of the maids had answered it, or whoever it was had given up. They hadn’t given up. McEsters crossed the flagstones, coming all the way to where Clay stood, back rigid, pace precise, voice modulated. Stuart had wondered if McEsters would go slack after Ruth was dead. He would not. Ruth had chosen her servants well. He smiled tautly, watching McEsters cross the flagstones to him now, hoping the call was long distance from Sharon; it was the only call he cared to accept. These past weeks when loneliness overwhelmed him, or worry nagged, he called Sharon and talked to her.
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