On December 22, I set Mara's place at the kitchen table without putting any papers beside it. The roof repair was finished. The contractor's completed work and the paid household record were matters I could discuss if I chose, but they did not need a chair of their own. I wanted supper to be supper.
The room upstairs remained strange without the machine. I had moved a small table into the space, not to disguise the loss but because empty floor invited me to stand there and reconsider what could not usefully be reconsidered. My shears, needles, and other retained hand tools were arranged where I could reach them.
Mara arrived with bread and asked where I wanted it. That question still pleased me. I gave her a board and a knife. While I finished the meal, she told me about a caller at work who had insisted a refrigeration crew could repair a different sort of appliance if only she would send them.
"Did he believe you?" I asked.
"Eventually. I didn't offer to move in and supervise his kitchen."
We both laughed, then let the joke pass without turning it into a review of our worst conversations. She cut the bread too thick for my preference. I ate it that way. A boundary worth keeping did not require an opinion on every slice.
After supper she noticed an envelope near the telephone. My hand paused over the dishes. It contained a note from Della, nothing more threatening than a suggestion that I come to Harbor Stitch Workshop for a hand-stitching lesson she was planning. I could bring my own tools and attend if I liked.
"That sounds good," Mara said. "Do you want a ride?"
"I'll tell you if I do."
"All right."
No one repeated the offer in a different tone. I carried the dishes to the sink and felt how much work we had done to make those two words possible. Her willingness to help could remain available without becoming an instruction. My answer could remain undecided without becoming a rejection.
I telephoned Della while Mara dried. I said I would accept the invitation, provided she understood I was not volunteering to take charge of the whole lesson. Della said that suited her; she wanted another pair of practiced hands and perhaps someone willing to learn a different stitch.
"I can manage both badly on the first try," I told her.
"Then you'll fit in."
After the call I showed Mara the curved needles in their case. She remembered being forbidden to touch them when she was small. I remembered having to find one she had hidden in a pincushion, but she disputed that account. We left the disagreement unresolved because nobody's money or home depended on which memory was better.
The $6,800 had not returned. I knew the amount exactly, and I did not set it against the repaired roof as though good workmanship could cancel what I had lost. The roof had been paid for with the sale I chose, my savings, and help Mara had freely given. Keeping those histories separate let me be grateful without lying.
Before leaving, Mara checked her next week's shifts and asked whether supper could be a day later. I changed the calendar. She did not inspect my checkbook, and I did not ask her to prove she was working. We put the remaining bread into two bags, one for each household.
At the door she asked whether I was all right. There was room in the question now for an answer other than reassurance. I said I missed the machine and liked having a dry house. She nodded as though both could be true. Then she kissed my cheek and went home.
I returned to the table and sat in my own chair. Tomorrow I would choose what to mend, what to spend, whom to call. Tonight there were crumbs to brush into my palm and a cup still warm enough to finish. I drew it toward me and stayed there a while.