“What will you do?” Isabel asked. She had intended to command, and instead it was only a question. “When he arrives?” “Oh, I’ll—Don’t worry about me.” “I don’t,” Isabel said. Eva smiled at that, unhappy. She had done a lovely job of the garden table: a cloth, two candles. A bowl over a plate. The good glasses, the etched crystal. Isabel weathered the sudden and rattling rush that demanded she go to Eva, that she put her hands on her—but Isabel remained where she was, a tree upright in a storm.
