The polite conversation resumed, brittle as glass. Richard talked about market volatility and real estate. Eleanor about the museum board she chaired. I sat there, hands folded, the brown paper gift box resting on the coffee table in front of us, still unopened.
“Really, dear?” Eleanor said suddenly, glancing at the box. “You mustn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“It wasn’t any trouble,” I said evenly. “Just something small to say thank you.”
She smiled and reached forward to untie the string, her fingers careful not to crease the paper.
“How sweet. I’ll admit I’m curious what kind of cookies artists prefer.”
Before she could open it, Richard noticed the handwritten tag taped neatly to the top—my habit, a simple mark of courtesy. Three small words in pencil:
From Claire Donovan Studio.
He froze. His hand, halfway to the decanter, stopped midair. His eyes lingered on the name. Not the “Claire,” but the “Donovan.” His expression shifted subtly, the way a man’s might when he hears thunder before he sees lightning.
He blinked once, twice, then picked up the box and read the name again, lips moving soundlessly.
“Donovan,” he murmured. “Donovan… from Seattle?”