The landlady picks up a water bottle sitting in the grass beside her and takes a sip. “This is the most enthralling thing that has happened to me since I was in Tehran and… well, never mind. I don’t mean to make light of your loss.”
“I’m… glad someone else knows,” Finn says quietly.
She nods. “It’s lonely living undercover, isn’t it?”
“It is. Very lonely.”
The landlady plucks a bright blue cornflower from her garden, walks over, and tucks it into the pocket of his shirt. “Bachelor buttons. During the Victorian era, unmarried men would wear them in their buttonholes to show that they were single.”
Finn blinks. “Okay.”
She smiles up at him. “I never thought I’d say this, but I believe it’s my turn to host mah-jongg.”
“Mah-jongg?”
“You’ll join, of course. I’ll give you a crash course. You just need to be good enough to sit and play. A ‘dummy player’ is what my mother used to call it.” She narrows her steely blue eyes at him. “What matters is that you keep your mouth shut and your ears open. You’d be amazed what people reveal when they don’t think anyone is really listening.”
FOURTEEN
I survey the plastic ziplock bags that litter the surface of our dining room table. Each one contains a single piece of jewelry—dainty earrings, vintage brooches, tarnished silver bracelets—and is affixed with a label in my handwriting.
“It’s gone,” I say, the words catching in my throat, my voice brittle. “Someone must’ve taken it. It all makes sense now. Someone was in the house and put the wine bottle in the trash and took the bracelet.”
Miguel looks up from where he is rummaging through a different box. His expression is calm. “Okay, slow down. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Who’s jumping? I’m not jumping.” My hand shoots out, gesturing wildly to the stacked plastic storage bins lining the wall. “Look at my system. It’s airtight. Eleven years, Miguel. Eleven years and I’veneverlost anything.”
“I know,” he says carefully, like I am a skittish animal. “It’s a good system. You’re very organized.”
I freeze, spine stiffening. That tone. It is thetherapy voice,the one we both tried to use with Rachel after I read about it in a book on how to talk to teenagers. Validate feelings, even if you think they’re ridiculous. Nod supportively. Don’t escalate. Use your calm voice so your child might use theirs. We both used it on Rachel for years. And now he is using it on me.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
He blinks. “Do what?”
“You’re patronizing me.”
“I’m not—Caren, I swear—I’m not patronizing you. Your system is amazing.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m—” I stop myself before I sayRachel. “Don’t validate me.”
“You want me to invalidate you instead?” A smile edges at his lips. He’s trying to lighten things up. But I don’t feel like lightening up. I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to scream. But my head has begun to pound, and I can barely keep up with my thoughts.
“It’sall connected,” I say, barely able to hear myself. “The wine bottle I didn’t drink. The takeout I didn’t order. And now the bracelet that’s missing. Don’t you see? It’s not just one thing. It’severything.”
But Miguel’s face is a blank slate. He has that dumbfounded, logical look he wears when he can’t—or won’t—follow the thread I am desperately pulling.
“I need a drink,” I murmur, already stepping toward the kitchen.
He catches me by my wrist before I’ve taken my second step. Firm. “No alcohol for two weeks. It’s in the handout the doctor gave us.”
I yank my arm out of his grip. “Ihatethis stupid concussion,” I snap. “I hate everything about it.”
“I know, honey.” He pulls me into a hug. He does this—reaches for closeness when words fail. For a moment, I let myself collapse into his warm body. Safe. He smells like Old Spice deodorant, the same brand he used when I met him twenty-five years ago. But even wrapped in his arms, I feel exposed.
“Someone took it,” I whisper against his chest. “Why can’t you see what I see? They were in the house. They took the bracelet. You don’t think…Kenya?”
He pulls back, his brow pinched. But he doesn’t speak. Instead, he guides me to the couch in the living room, and we both sit. A photo book sits open on the coffee table. I can’t see it, but I know the year is etched in gold along the spine. A full-page photo of the four of us smiling up at me. It was taken last summer on the Rehoboth boardwalk, during a rare alignment of schedules, on our final vacation before we got Kugel.