“They were ours,” corrects Tanya. “We were made an extremely generous offer a few years ago. Which naturally … we took.” All the animation has waned from her voice.
As I sprinkle torn basil over the plate, she gazes out the window again, her face rigid.
“And you don’t ever think about … doing another job?” I venture.
“Olivia,” says Tanya, in her explaining-things-to-a-three-year-old voice. “Mr. Geiger and I have made our money. I am fortunate enough not to need to work.”
“No, of course not,” I say deferentially.
I grind black pepper onto the salad, remembering Tanya’s tears that day by the washing machine. I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for her. She obviously has no idea what to do with all her time. And Eddie doesn’t help, being out on the golf course all day.
“You know, Lady Edge
