I tried to clasp it around my left wrist, but my fingers were clumsy and stiff from the morning chill.
“Let me,” he said.
He leaned forward, his large, calloused fingers working the small latch. His skin was rough from years of working in the yard, but his touch was surprisingly gentle against my skin.
As he fastened the metal, I saw him glance toward the hallway closet.
After Nolan went out to the garage to check the oil in the sedan, I went to the hallway closet to find my light blue cardigan.
The closet was narrow, smelling of old cedar and the wool blankets we kept for the winter.
On the top shelf, behind a stack of spare pillows, sat a small wooden shelf where we used to keep our keys.
Next to the key tray was the small, silver-plated photo frame.
The frame was lying flat on its face, the black velvet backing showing instead of the picture.
I reached up and touched the corner of the metal, feeling the cold silver under my fingertip. I did not turn it over.
Emily had been sixteen in the photograph, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, laughing at something behind the camera.
Nolan had turned the frame down the day after the funeral ten years ago.
He had said he could not look at her eyes while he was trying to put his shoes on in the morning.
Since then, neither of us had spoken her name. It was a rule we never wrote down, but we both lived by it, as if saying the syllables would cause the plaster in the ceiling to crack.
I pulled my cardigan from the hanger, leaving the silver frame exactly as it was.
My wrist felt heavy with the white gold bracelet. It clinked against the metal closet door handle as I closed it.
