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“It’s very easy,” Charles said, waving a hand wearily. His arm
felt as though it weighed a million pounds. “Just realize that, no
matter what you do, things are out of your control. Voilà! Peace!”
She took his hand and leaned close, then kissed his cheek. Her
lips were cold against his skin. “Alas, dear one, I think I prefer
turmoil and trauma and long life. See you soon.”
He watched as she walked away, and then he closed his eyes to
rest for the walk back to the boardinghouse. He had a feeling he
didn’t have much time left, and there were several very important
things to do.
Late May, 1949
fifteen
M
innie sat alone in the kitchen for some time
after her mother , Thomas, and Charles had
LEFT. When Charles returned, she had her elbows on
the table, resting her chin on her fists.
“Arthur’s family history is the most dramatic story I’ve ever
heard,” she said, “and it doesn’t delight me one bit. It makes my
stomach hurt.”
Charles nodded in sympathy. “Has Thom found him?”
Minnie shrugged, dropping her hands and slumping in her
chair. She was having a hard time focusing enough to answer
Charles’s questions. Her mind was spinning. “I doubt it. Not if
Arthur doesn’t want to be found. And even if Thomas does cor-
ner him, Arthur won’t say anything.”
Arthur. Who is not my brother.
Minnie couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry now about the
feelings she’d harbored since the day she’d first met him. She’d
flirted with everyone, kissed any boy who’d wanted to kiss her, but
