I canceled my shift at the shelter and spent the next three hours cleaning my penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. Not that it needed it—I kept the place spotless, just like David had liked it. But cleaning gave my hands something to do while my mind raced through possibilities. Was someone sick? Were they having marriage trouble? In my seventy-two years, I’d learned that “we need to talk” rarely preceded good news.
At exactly two o’clock, my doorbell rang. Avery stood there in an expensive charcoal suit—the Tom Ford I’d bought him last Christmas. At forty-five, he’d kept his father’s strong jawline and dark hair, though gray was starting to thread through it. Behind him, Taylor wore a cream cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly utilities, fresh from their third vacation of the year in Turks and Caicos.
“Mom.” Avery kissed my cheek, his familiar woody cologne enveloping me for a moment. Taylor’s smile was bright, perfectly white teeth against her tanned skin. “Your home looks beautiful as always, Mrs. Rivers.”