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I used it for eighteen months, then life became busy in the way life does when someone else’s life is louder. Now it holds wrapped canvases, random storage, and guilt.

“Martin thinks selling it would buy time,” I say.

Jessica takes that in carefully.

“I could list it for you.”

“No.”

Our food arrives, rescuing neither of us. The chicken salad sandwich sits on its white plate next to a pile of waffle fries, arranged as if lunch is still a credible concept.

Jessica waits until the waiter leaves.

“What about the house?”

I look down at my plate.

“It’s willed to me, but so is the mortgage. If Clint makes a claim and the estate has to satisfy it, the house may be a problem.”

Clint. It’s weird how we use the name and never have anything concrete to attach to it. It’s been weeks since I learned that name and still haven’t seen the face behind it.

I appreciate that Jessica doesn’t insult me with immediate reassurance.

“How likely is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does Reggie say?”

“That we have options. I’m sure every option carries a legal fee.”

“Okay,” she slides a little closer. “But what are these options?”

“He says a lot depends on whether Clint pursues a claim and we can reach a decent settlement.”

Jessica leans back. “So it may not happen.”

“It could.”

“It also might not.”

“I understand probability.”

I pick up half the sandwich, then set it down again. The patio is too pleasant for this conversation. The lavender moves in the breeze. A bird lands on the wrought iron fence, considers us, and leaves.

Jessica spears a fork full of greens and doesn’t eat them.

“I’m going to say something,” she says.

“Of course you are.”

“Some of this might not be the worst thing.”

I look at her.

“Not the legal bullshit. Not the secret son. Obviously, none of that.”

“Good clarification.”