I followed the old woman down a short corridor and into a large kitchen area. She pointed towards the dining table. “Sit. Sit … ” I pulled out one of the chairs and sat. The dog, I noticed, stuck close to her, watching from behind the folds of her skirt. Just like a little kid who’s scared of visitors. “You drink coffee?” I nodded dumbly, and she carried on talking; I got the feeling she would have whether I’d answered or not. “It’s real Dutch coffee. Tony used to like his … I buy it from a little shop in Fairfield.” Dutch coffee. That was the accent! Last year, just before we moved away, Nathalie Raymond’s family had taken in this exchange student from the Netherlands. Sybilla, her name was. She was sixteen, the same age as Nat’s older sister. And she was a knockout. I even visited Nathalie a couple of times, just to catch a look. Sybilla had spoken with the same accent. I watched the old woman. She lifted the kettle, weighed it in her hand, gave it a little shake and nod- ded to herself.
