The uncertainty in her voice had never been more audible. “Eve! Hi! Why do you sound as if you wish you were talking to someone else?” “That’s not how I sound. But we did say we’d keep in touch as old friends who’d also been something more.” “So?” “This is . . . well, rather more than ‘old friends’ stuff. Grant, my mother has died.” “Oh, I am sorry. We didn’t meet all that often, but I really liked her. And respected her as well. How come? Was it some kind of accident?” “Breast cancer. It killed her quite quickly, though she kept quiet about it longer than I like. But I was able to be with her when she died.” “That will be a comfort. But are you having problems coming to terms with it?” “No, it’s not that. Or not exactly. And everyone in Crossley has been marvelous—telling me how much she meant to them, what a difference she made to their lives. And there’s been a veritable deluge of letters, most of them just a bit personal, which has been nice.
