“She’s pretty.”
He gazed at a small framed montage of shots on the table nearest him. Gina had taken those pictures at a New Year’s Eve party. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. It was 4:15 now. Getting late. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”
“Yeah.” She sighed dramatically. “I gotta go give Marybeth my Barbie. Mine.”
“Why?”
“I broke the head off hers. Grandpa says I hafta ’pologize and give her my doll. It’s ’posed to make me feel better.”
He squatted down to be eye level with her. “Well, Ali Gator, I guess we have something in common, after all. I … broke something very special, too, and now I have to go apologize.”
She sighed dejectedly. “Too bad.”
He put his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “So, I really need to get going.”
“Okay, Joe.” She walked over to the door and opened it, then looked back at him. “Do you think Marybeth will play with me again after I ’pologize?”
“I hope so,” he said.
“Bye, Joe.”
“See ya later, Ali Gator.”
That made her giggle, and then she was gone.
Joe stood there a minute, staring at the closed door. Finally, he turned and headed down the hallway. For the next hour, as he shaved and showered and dressed in his cleanest worn clothes, he tried to string together the sentences he would need. He tried pretty words—Diana’s death ruined something inside me; stark words—I fucked up; painful words—I couldn’t stand watching her die.
But none of them were the whole of it, none of them expressed the truth of his emotions.
He still hadn’t figured out what he would say, when he turned onto their road or, a few minutes later, when he came to their mailbox.
Dr. and Mrs. Henry Roloff.
Joe couldn’t help touching it, letting his fingertips trace along the raised gold lettering on the side of the mailbox. There had been a mailbox in Bainbridge like this one; that one read: Dr. and Mrs. Joe Wyatt.
A lifetime ago.
He stared at his former in-laws’ house. It looked exactly as it had on another June day, so long ago, when Joe and Di had gotten married in the backyard, surrounded by family and friends.
He almost gave in to panic, almost turned away.
But running away didn’t help. He’d tried that route, and it had brought him back here, to this house, to these people whom he’d once loved so keenly, to say— I’m sorry.
Just that.
He walked up the intricately patterned brick path, toward the white-pillared house that Mrs. Roloff had designed to look like Tara. There were roses and sculpted hedges on both sides of him, their scents a cloying sweetness. On either side of the front door stood a cast-iron lion.
Joe didn’t let himself pause or think. He reached out and rang the bell.
A few moments later, the door opened. Henry Roloff stood there, pipe in hand, dressed in khaki pants and a navy turtleneck. “Can I—” At the sight of Joe, his smile fell. “Joey,” he said, his pipe aflutter now in a trembling hand. “We’d heard you were back in town.”
Joe tried like hell to smile.
“Who is it?” Tina called out from somewhere inside the house.
“You won’t believe it,” Henry said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Henry?” she yelled again. “Who is it?”
Henry stepped back. A watery smile spilled across his face, wrinkled his cheeks. “He’s home, Mother,” he yelled. Then, softly, he said it again, his eyes filling with tears. “He’s home.”
“Are you sure this is tequila? It tastes like lighter fluid.” Meghann heard the sloppy slur in her voice. She was past tipsy now, barreling toward plastered, and it felt good.
“It’s expensive tequila. Only the best for my friend.” Elizabeth leaned sideways for a piece of pizza. As she pulled it toward her, the cheese and topping slid off, landing in a gooey heap on the concrete deck. “Oops.”
“Don’t worry ’bout it.” Meghann scooped up the mess and threw it overboard. “Pro’ly just killed a tourist.”
“Are you kidding? It’s ten o’clock. Seattle is empty.”
“That’s true.”
Elizabeth took a bite of her crust. “So what’s the problem, kiddo? Your messages lately sounded depressed. And you don’t usually cry when I show up.”
“Let me see, I hate my job. My client’s husband tried to shoot me after I ruined him. My sister married a country singer who happens to be a felon.” She looked up. “Shall I go on?”
“Please.”
“I baby-sat my niece when Claire went on her honeymoon and now my house feels obscenely quiet. And I met this guy.…”
Elizabeth slowly put down the pizza.
Meghann looked at her best friend, feeling a sudden wave of helplessness. Softly, she dared to say, “There’s something wrong with me, Birdie. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my cheeks are wet. I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
“Are you lonely yet?”