“Did he find out about you and Malinda?”
“All I know is, she showed up one day and said it was over. She never came back to me. They kept visiting the island for years, on and off, but she kept her distance.”
“That must’ve been hard. To see her but not be with her.”
He looks down at his gnarled, trembling fingers. “It’s hard even now. I pleaded with her, tried to get her to see reason, but she wouldn’t budge. That man had some kind of hold over her. It was hell for a while but time heals . . . or so they say.”
“You lost touch with her.”
“When I saw you, it was like I went right back to that time.”
I pick up the picture. “Thank you for talking to me.” My mind is turning in frantic circles. “Would you be willing to talk to me again?”
“Come back anytime. I don’t get many visitors around here.”
As I ride my bicycle home, my panic level rises. Every man marries his mother, right? There’s nothing wrong with this picture. Nothing untoward. It shouldn’t matter that I look so much like Jacob’s mother. But it does. During the four years I’ve lost, did I know about my resemblance to her? If so, did I find the likeness strange, troubling?
When I reach the house, Jacob’s not home, but he came back while I was away. He left a mug on the counter. I traipse outside through the wind to the garden. The white stakes, labeling the plants, have multiplied. In addition to the labels I found, Jacob has added new ones to mark beets, chives, garlic, and a myriad of other herbs and vegetables. But the labels are old, all of them printed in his mother’s handwriting. Every single one of them.
I turn and run back to the house. Whitecaps roar in across the sea, portending a storm.
In my office, I boot up my computer with trembling fingers. I enter “Malinda Winthrop” in the Google search box. Only a few hits appear, referring to other Malinda Winthrops. No information about Jacob’s mother. Nothing at all.
In the living room, I flip through the photo albums again. Photos of Malinda were taken from a distance. This I already knew. I search in vain for a single close-up. She’s on the yacht in a wide headband, bell-bottom jeans, and sunglasses, dangling her legs over the side. Young Jacob points out to sea. His father looks very much the way Jacob looks now—tall, handsome, with a quirky nose and a slightly lopsided grin. But Malinda is always far away. There are no photographs of Jacob as a teenager or adult before I met him.
I page through the pictures of Jacob and me, on the beach, taking a selfie, dancing at the wedding. Out to dinner with friends. The photograph of Aiden on the bluff brings back the memory of falling into his arms. Only this time, I see him hiking ahead. He turned to summon us. Come on, you two. You’re always lagging. I ran after him, but Jacob hung back, determined not to hike any faster. I caught up to Aiden, and he winked at me. We shared a secret. The photograph is printed from Jacob’s computer. The red ink was running low—Aiden’s hair shows a subtle blue tint, from the blue ink. Blue ink.
Jacob, so careful to straighten edges, to make his bed to perfection. Jacob, married to a woman who looks uncannily like his mother.
Blue-tinted photographs. Photoshop, Linny email.
On my office computer, I check my email and find a reply from Linny.
Dear Kyra,
Sorry I took so long to get back to you. I was out on a research run. What an amazing place this is. But I miss you. As for the giraffe, too bad you can’t find the carving! I’ll ask my mom about getting you another one, but I can’t guarantee a replacement. She may not go back to Kenya—she’s got a few other countries on her radar. But I’ll check with her. Don’t worry, we’ll have many new gifts for you. Xo,
Linny
I push my chair back, her words pulsating across the screen. No, it can’t be. A man so careful, so meticulous. He has no idea. How else could he reply? He couldn’t possibly know the truth. He swallowed the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Masquerading as Linny, he couldn’t reply the way Linny would reply. I could’ve done a better job of impersonating her. I know her so much better than he ever did. I know the secret she kept about her mother. Pretending to be Linny, I might’ve replied:
Dear Kyra,