Charles stepped outside moments later, phone to his ear, murmuring about road conditions. The door clicked shut. Mabel leaned close to Lauren, voice a whisper. “He handles everything, knows best,” she said. Her hands twisted the blanket tight, knuckles pale against the wool.
Lauren patted her arm, unsure what to say. Mabel’s eyes darted to the door, then softened. “It’s good, really,” she murmured, nodding as if convincing herself. The whisper hung between them, fragile as the steam rising from forgotten tea.