The Silver Hairpin

Julian always poured the wine, turning the bottle so Clara could see the label before filling her glass. As he set it down, his thumb would brush her knuckle, a small gesture she had come to expect. For seven years, she had thought of it as tenderness. Sometimes, during a difficult day, she looked forward to that moment more than the wine. Rain followed her from the airport on the Tuesday she returned from Zurich. Her presentation had finished three days ahead of schedule, and she had decided to surprise him. In the cab, she pictured him at the kitchen table with the Financial Times open beside his coffee. She imagined leaving her suitcase in the hallway and waiting for him to notice her. The apartment was empty. Clara called his name, then carried her bag into the bedroom. A faint floral perfume lingered near the vanity. Beside her jewelry