“He's dead.”
“Who is?”
I straightened, leaving the paper on the floor. “Him. Oh my God, I can't even look at him.” Except that I couldn't tear my eyes away from the black and white photograph of Gordon Stewart, the man who our mother had claimed to love. The man who our mother had said was family to Amy.
Ever brave, Amy plucked the newspaper from the floor and read, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “Wow. Lung cancer.”
“I didn't know he still lived here.”
Amy scanned the page. “It says that he moved back five years ago to be closer to his brother. He had no other family, apparently.”
Just hearing the details of his life made me ill. Or maybe it was guilt. There was a part of me that wished the man had never existed, but how horrible was that? He was dead now. Gone. Just like Mom.
“Is it bad that it makes me sick to my stomach to think about how much time we spent around him?” Amy asked. “I love Mom, but that's one thing I can't forgive her for.”
“No, it's not bad. I was thinking the same exact thing.” Thank God I had Amy in all of this. I could explain the crap out of what had happened to us, but she'd had to live it, too. She understood how bizarre it all was. “It was weird. Most people sneak around when they have an affair, but not her.”
“I will never forget the morning he wore Dad's robe. That was so messed up.”
My stomach clenched as another unwelcome memory flooded my brain—it wasn't just the flecks of blue and black in the old stoneware plates my mom loved. It wasn't just the camel color of dad's velour robe. It was the smell of coffee and orange juice and maple syrup hanging in the air and the way it blended with that baked aroma of the furnace working too hard to heat the house. The sound of bacon sizzling and popping in fat in the cast iron pan. The soft nubby feel of my flannel nightgown against my thighs as I wrung my hands in my lap under the table and wished that I could close my eyes and make him disappear and never, ever come back. Ever. And worst of all, the knowledge that Amy was feeling the same exact thing I was. It hadn't merely radiated off her, it was like there was an invisible channel between us, with muddy sickening water that looked and smelled like death flowing back and forth. At that moment, I wanted more than anything to shield Amy from all of it. I was ten. I could take it. She was eight. She was innocent.
“So that's it then, huh?” Amy asked. “That chapter is really closed now.” She folded the paper in half and then in half again.
“What are you doing with that? You aren't keeping it, are you?”
“Oh, hell no. I'm tossing it in the fireplace. Where it belongs.”
“Smart. That's smart.” I trailed her into the living room and after we scouted out the kitchen to make sure Dad wasn't about to walk in, I pulled back the old brass screen in front of the fireplace.
Amy grabbed one of those long matches from the mantle and kneeled down on the brick hearth. With a single strike, it sparked into flame. The newspaper caught fire right away and Amy tossed it on top of the ashes from last night. She put her arm around my shoulders as we watched the flames erase the memory of a man neither of us had ever wanted in our lives. It didn't take long for it to all be gone, and the fire snuffed itself out.
I put the screen back in place. “Feel better?”
Amy nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
“What are you two doing?” Dad's voice came from behind us.
Amy looked at me and we both agreed without a word that he didn't need to know. “Just getting rid of some trash,” she said. “Those cinnamon rolls ready yet?”
“You set the timer. I don't know how I should know,” he answered.
“I’ll go grab the notepad you found.””I traipsed back into Dad's office. Should I have stopped her from burning the obituary? Out of respect? How messed up was the idea of that? I wasn't sure what was going through my head—what was done was done. Gordon Stewart was gone now. Amy and I could get on with the rest of our lives with as clean a slate as the universe was ever going to give us.
Chapter Twenty
My first dayback at work after Thanksgiving was blissfully uneventful. Miles was taking a few extra days off, spending them at his villa in Anguilla with his kids, his new wife and his ex-wife. How very modern of him. Summer and I had rolled our eyes about it more than once. He was such a pretentious, pompous ass.
After work, I came home and made dinner for three. It was just spaghetti, but Fiona loved it and even helped me in the kitchen. Even if that was as close as I ever got to domesticity, it felt like a win. I loved taking care of her and Eamon. There was no bad history here—only happy days ahead.
Eamon and Fiona were watching TV and I was tidying up the kitchen when I got a call from Amy.
“Did you get a letter today? From Bill Stewart? In Connecticut?”
I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, wiping my hands dry on a towel. “No. Why? Is something wrong?” That name…Bill Stewart. Did I even know who that was?
“I don't know. I mean I'm not sure what it means.” She was distressed. I could hear it. Amy did not get this worked up about anything other than maybe wedding stuff.
“What does it say?”
