There was a sense of anticipation. It floated on the air, a dust suspended. I breathed it in, exhaled, felt it swirl around my skin. The ladder had been waiting on the porch when I’d gotten home from Hatteras Village. Paul had dropped it off earlier than I’d expected, but it was only a six-foot stepladder. A note had been tucked beneath the hinge, apologizing for the fact that Paul’s grandmother had loaned out the taller ladder to a neighbor. He would try to get it back in a couple days and bring it to me, if the short ladder wouldn’t do the job. He’d also included an offer at the end of the note: I’m not exactly a Wilt Chamberlain, but I’ve got a longer reach than you. Call me if you think I can help. He’d written his number at the bottom. I couldn’t call anyone, of course, so after the UPS man stopped by for his beignets, I’d grabbed a broom from the utility room, hoping against hope that I could somehow tip the glass box into my hands, catch it, and come down the ladder without . . .
