"But if she were back in your life, Peter, wouldn't these things seem a little more tolerable?"
He looked at his baby. "Yes," he said. "You're right. I'll do it.
I'll call her."
* * *
Greta walked into the bank and faced the long line of customers.
"Ugh," she sneered, settling her sunglasses in her hair.
Resigned, she labored to the end of the line, a dozen or so people between her and the front. She fished through her purse, looking for a stray form left over from a past visit. She found none, and besides, she wasn't sure which form she needed anyway. There has to be a better way, she thought, glancing anxiously at the multitude of forms stacked on the podium beside the line. Just then, the branch manager appeared from a small room behind the main counter, carrying a handful of papers in his hands. Ah! There it was, a better way. She managed to catch his eye.
"Bruce! How are you?" Greta said affectionately, catching him lightly by the arm.
"Well hello, Mrs. Locke. How are you?" he said, patting her hand.
She leaned close to his ear. "I was fine, until I walked into this. It's becoming so difficult to bank."
Taking advantage of her impairment, which, before falling in love with Jean-Pierre, she would have never considered, she fluttered her four-fingered hand in the air. She sighed. "Oh well."
Managing to restrain his surprise, he glanced pensively at the papers in his hand, then at the woman who stood in front of Greta. Like the others in line, the woman's attention was fixed on the front of the line. Greta read the young manager's mind with delicious knowing: She is Matthew Locke's wife, with a history of enormous deposits. And very large balances. And, she knew, he had never before seen her disfigured hand. Pity.