Now, standing on a chair to reach the counter, he was peeling onions. I didn’t happen to need any onions, but Wylie didn’t know that. His little pink lips were set in concentration as he teased the papery skin away from a bulb. From the other room, the phone rang. “One minute, sweetie,” I promised Wylie. Just so that there would be no misunderstandings, I carried my eight-inch chef’s knife, the one I’d been using to slice tomatoes, into the living room with me. “Hello?” My eyes went to the clock. It was a few minutes after five. “Julia, it’s Marta!” She was out of breath. “Hi, Marta. How were the deliveries? Did you put the flyers in the windows?” “Yes! But there’s something I called to tell you.” “Okay,” I said, wondering how Wylie was doing all alone in the kitchen. Our Vermont phone was old school, with a cord. I was tethered to the living room. The kitchen was oddly quiet. “Can I . . . Just one second. I need to check on . . .” But Marta was having none of it.
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