She stepped out and closed the door with deliberate control.
The front door was propped open. Laughter and music spilled into the air, mixing without restraint. Her porch chairs had been moved into the yard. A cooler sat on stonework Henry had laid decades earlier, water dripping into the gaps between carefully placed stones. She stood for a moment, looking at it, then stepped inside.
The smell hit first—perfume, beer, fried food. Her living room was occupied. Strangers sat on her sofa. Others leaned against her kitchen counters. A man had his feet on her coffee table. Someone had draped a wet towel over a dining chair.
She stepped further in.
“Excuse me,” she said.
No one responded.
“Excuse me,” she said again.
A few heads turned.
Then Megan appeared, already smiling, moving through the room with practiced ease.
“Oh, Eleanor! You’re early.”
Eleanor let the silence stretch.
“I live here,” she said.
Megan waved a hand lightly, as if smoothing out an inconvenience.
“Yes, of course, but Robert said tomorrow, so we thought we had time. Since everyone’s already here, we didn’t think you’d mind. It’s just family and friends. We were just making use of the space.”
Eleanor looked around—at strangers, at shoes near her door, at sand on her floor, at glass she recognized from an estate sale years ago.
She looked back at Megan.
