"I told her the truth. That we're friends."
"Yes. And we are. But how could she believe it?"
David shrugged. "It's the truth."
"Not the whole truth. David, in some weird way we're con?nected, you and I, because of Phoebe. Because I know that secret. The thing is, I used to like that: feeling special because I knew something no one else did. It's a kind of power, isn't it, knowing a secret? But lately I don't like it so much, knowing this. It's not really mine to know, is it?"
"No." David picked up a lump of dirt and crumbled it between his fingers. He thought of Caroline's letters, which he'd carefully burned when he moved into this house. "I suppose it's not."
"So. You see? You will? Tell her, I mean."
"I don't know, Rosemary. I can't promise that."
They sat quietly in the sun for a few minutes, watching Jack try again to turn cartwheels on the grass. He was a towhead, agile, naturally athletic, a boy who liked to run and climb. David had come back from West Virginia set free from the grief and loss he'd locked away all those years. When June died he'd had no way to give voice to what had been lost, no real way to move on. It was un?seemly, even, to speak of the dead in those days, so they had not. They had left all this grieving unfinished. Somehow, going back had allowed him to settle it. He had come home to Lexington drained, yes, but also calm and sure. After all these years, he'd finally had the strength to give Norah the freedom to remake her life.
When Jack was born, David set up an account for him in Rose?mary's name, and one for Phoebe, in Caroline's name. It was easy enough; he'd always had Caroline's social security number, and he had her address too. It had taken a private investigator less than a week to find Caroline and Phoebe, living in Pittsburgh, in a tall narrow house near the freeway. David had driven there and parked on the street, meaning to go up the steps and knock on the door. What he wanted was to tell Norah what had happened, and he couldn't do that without telling her where Phoebe was. Norah would want to see their daughter, he was sure, so it wasn't only his own life he might change, or Norah's or Paul's. He had come here to tell Caroline what he was hoping to do.
Was it the right thing? He didn't know. He sat in the car. It was dusk, and headlights flashed off the sycamore leaves. Phoebe had grown up here, the street so familiar she took it for granted, this sidewalk pushed up by the roots of a tree, the caution sign quiver?ing slightly in the wind, the rush of traffic—all of these would be, for his daughter, emblems of home. A couple pushing a baby in a stroller walked by, and then a light went on in the living room of Caroline's house. David got out of the car and stood at the bus stop, trying to look inconspicuous even as he gazed across the darkening lawn at the window. Inside, moving in the square of light, Caroline picked up the living room, gathering newspapers and folding up a blanket. She wore an apron. Her movements were deft and fo?cused. She stood and stretched, looked over her shoulder, and spoke.
And then David saw her: Phoebe, his daughter. She was in the dining room, setting the table. She had Paul's dark hair and his pro?file, and for an instant, until she turned to reach for the saltshaker, David felt as if he must be watching his son. He took a step for?ward, and Phoebe walked out of his line of vision and then came back with three plates. She was short and stocky, and her hair was thin, held back with barrettes. She wore glasses. Even so, the resem?blance was still visible to David: there was Paul's smile, his nose, Paul's expression of concentration on Phoebe's face when she put her hands on her hips and surveyed the table. Caroline came into the room and stood beside her, then put her arm around Phoebe in a quick affectionate hug, and they both laughed.
By then it was fully dark. David stood, transfixed, glad there was little foot traffic. Leaves skittered along the sidewalk in the wind, and he pulled his jacket closer. He remembered how he'd felt on the night of the birth, as if he were standing outside his own life and watching himself move through it. Now he understood that he was not in control of this situation, he was excluded from it as com?pletely as if he didn't exist. Phoebe had been invisible to him all these years: an abstraction, not a girl. Yet here she was, putting water glasses on the table. She looked up, and a man with bristly dark hair came in and said something that made Phoebe smile. Then they sat down at the table, the three of them, and began to eat. David went back to his car. He imagined Norah, standing next to him in the darkness, watching their daughter move through her life, unaware of them. He had caused Norah pain; his deception had made her suffer in ways he had never imagined or intended. But he could spare her this. He could drive away and leave the past undisturbed. And that was what he did, finally, traveling all night across the flat expanse of Ohio.
"I don't understand." Rosemary was looking at him. "Why can't you promise? It's the right thing to do."
"It would cause too much grief."
"You don't know what will happen until you do it."
"I can make a pretty good guess."
"But David—promise me you'll think about it?"
"I think about it every single day."
She shook her head, troubled, then smiled a small, sad smile. "All right, then. There's one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Stuart and I are getting married."
"You're far too young to get married," he said at once, and they both laughed.
"I'm as old as the hills," she said. "That's how I feel half the time."
"Well," he said. "Congratulations again. It's no surprise, but it's good news all the same." He thought of Stuart Wells, tall and ath?letic. Strapping was the word that came to mind. He was a respira?tory therapist. He'd been in love with Rosemary for years now, but she'd made him wait until she finished school. "I'm glad for you, Rosemary. He's a good young man, Stuart. And he loves Jack. Does he have a job in Harrisburg?"
"Not yet. He's looking. His contract here finishes this month."
"How's the job market in Harrisburg?"
"So-so. But I'm not worried. Stuart's very good."
"I'm sure he must be."
"You're angry."
"No. No, not at all. But your news makes me feel sad. Sad and old."
She laughed. "Old as the hills?"
Now he laughed too. "Oh, much, much older."
They were silent for a moment. "It all just happened," Rosemary said. "Everything came together in this last week. I didn't want to mention anything about the job until I was sure. And then, once I got the job, Stuart and I decided to get married. I know it must seem sudden."
"I like Stuart," David said. "I'll look forward to congratulating him too."
She smiled. "Actually, I wondered if you'd give me away."
He looked at her then, her pale skin, the happiness she could no longer contain shining through her smile.
"I'd be honored," he said gravely.
"It's going to be here. Very small and simple and private. In two weeks."
"You're not wasting any time."
"I don't need to think about it," she said. "Everything feels com?pletely right." She glanced at her watch and sighed. "I'd better get going." She stood up, brushing off her hands. "Come on, Jack."
"I'll keep an eye on him, if you want, while you get dressed."
"That would be a lifesaver. Thanks."
"Rosemary."
"Yes?"
"You'll send me photos now and then? Of Jack, as he grows up? Of you both, in your new place?"
"Sure. Of course." She folded her arms and kicked at the edge of the step.
"Thanks," he said simply, troubled again by the ways he had managed to miss his own life, absorbed as he'd been by his lenses and his grief. People imagined he had quit taking pictures because of the dark-haired woman in Pittsburgh and her unflattering review. He'd fallen out of favor, people speculated, he'd become discouraged. No one would believe he had simply ceased caring, but it was true. He hadn't picked up a camera since he went to stand by the confluence of those rivers. He had given it up, art and craft, the intricate and ex?hausting task of trying to transform the world into something else, to turn the body into the world and the world into the body. Some?times he came across his photographs, in textbooks or hanging on the walls of private offices or homes, and he was startled by their cold beauty, their technical precision—sometimes, even, by the hun?gry searching that their emptiness implied.
"You can't stop time," he said now. "You can't capture light. You can only turn your face up and let it rain down. All the same, Rosemary, I'd like to have some pictures. Of you and of Jack. They would give me a glimpse, anyway. They would give me great pleasure."
"I'll send a lot," she promised, touching his shoulder. "I'll inun?date you."
He sat on the steps while she dressed, lazy in the sun. Jack played with his truck. You should tell her. He shook his head. After he'd sat watching Caroline's house like a voyeur, he'd called a lawyer in Pittsburgh and set up those beneficiary accounts. When he died, they would skip probate. Jack and Phoebe would be taken care of, and Norah would never need to know.
Rosemary came back, smelling of Ivory soap, dressed in a skirt and flat shoes. She took Jack's hand and hefted a turquoise back?pack on her shoulder. She looked so young, strong and slender, her hair damp, her face concentrated in a frown. She would drop Jack at the sitter's house on the way.
"Oh," she said, "with everything else, I almost forgot: Paul called."
David's heart quickened. "Did he?"
"Yes, this morning. It was the middle of the night for him; he'd just come from a concert. He was in Seville, he said. He's been there for three weeks, studying flamenco guitar with someone—I don't remember who, but he sounded famous."
"Was he having a good time?"
"Yes. It sounded like he was. He didn't leave a number. He said he'd call again."
David nodded, glad Paul was safe. Glad he'd called.
"Good luck on your exam," he said, standing.
"Thanks. As long as I pass, that's all that matters."
She smiled, then waved and walked with Jack down the narrow stone path to the sidewalk. David watched her go, trying to fix this moment—the vivid backpack, her hair swinging against her back, Jack's free hand reaching out to grab leaves and sticks—forever in his mind. It was futile, of course; he was forgetting things with every step she took. Sometimes his photographs amazed him, pic?tures he came across stored in old boxes or folders, moments he could not remember even when he saw them: himself laughing with people whose names he had forgotten, Paul wearing an ex?pression David had never seen in life. And what would he have of this moment in another year, in five? The sun in Rosemary's hair, and the dirt beneath her fingernails, and the faint clean scent of soap.
And somehow, that would be enough.
He stood, stretched, and loped off to the park. About a mile into his run, he remembered the other thing that had been nagging him all morning, the importance of this day beyond Rosemary's test: July twelfth. Norah's birthday. She was forty-six.
Hard to believe. He ran, falling into an easy stride, remembering Norah on their wedding day. They had walked outside, into the raw late-winter sun, and stood on the sidewalk shaking hands with their guests. The wind caught at her veil, whipped it against his cheek, late snow on the dogwood tree raining down like a cloud of petals.
't He ran, veering away from the park, heading instead for his old neighborhood. Rosemary was right. Norah should know. He would tell her today. He would go to their old house, where Norah still lived, and wait until she returned, and he would tell her, though he could not imagine how Norah would respond.
Of course you can't, Rosemary had said. That's life, David. Would you have imagined yourself, years ago, living in this dumpy little du?plex? Would you, in a million years, ever have imagined me?
Well, she was right; the life he lived was not the one he had imagined for himself. He had come to this town as a stranger, but now the streets flashing by were so familiar; not a step or an image remained unconnected to a memory. He had seen these trees planted, watched them grow. He passed houses he knew, houses where he had been for dinner or for drinks, where he'd gone on emergency calls, standing late in the night in hallways or foyers, writing out prescriptions, calling an ambulance. Layer on layer of days and images, dense and complex and particular to him alone. Norah could walk here, or Paul, and see something quite different but just as real.
David turned down his old street. He had not been over here in months, and he was surprised to find the porch columns of his house torn down, the roof supported by pairs of two-by-fours. Rot in the porch floor, it looked like, but no workmen were in sight. The driveway was empty; Norah wasn't home. He paced across the lawn a few times to catch his breath, then walked to where the key was still hidden beneath a brick beside the rhododendron. He let himself inside and got a drink of water. The house smelled stale. He pushed open a window. Wind lifted the sheer white curtains. These were new, as was the tile floor and the refrigerator. He got another glass of water. Then he walked through the house, curious to see what else had changed. Small things, everywhere: a new mirror in the dining room, the living room furniture reupholstered and re?arranged.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were the same, Paul's room a shrine to adolescent angst, with posters of obscure quartets taped to the wall, ticket stubs pinned to the bulletin board, the walls painted a hideous dark blue, like a cave. He'd gone to Juilliard, and although David had given his blessing and paid half his bills, what Paul still remem?bered was the deeper past, when David didn't believe his talent would be enough to sustain him in the world. He was always send?ing program flyers and reviews, along with postcards from every city where he'd performed, as if to say Here, loo't, I'm a success. As if Paul himself could hardly believe it. Sometimes David traveled a hundred miles or more, to Cincinnati or Pittsburgh or Atlanta or Memphis, to slip into the back of a darkened auditorium and watch
