The vase twists and falls from his hand, spilling roses across the floor. She holds her mother’s old suitcase over her chest, the nobby green 1970’s plastic rough against her silk dress.
Her voice is flat: “I’m sorry. You were scheduled to return tomorrow.”
His voice is an uncomfortable goiter stuck in his throat.
“Who?” he croaks.
She points at Robert’s old VW bus pulling in the mansion drive.
“But…” he gestures at the building, her dress. “Him? He can’t give you this. Was there not enough roses? Is the house too small?”
She sighs. “Bigger isn’t always better, Tony.”