The other box holds photo albums and the framed family photographs that Irene had had on display around the house on Church Street. The photo that greets Irene is the last picture taken of her and Russ together. They’re side by side on the front porch swing at her aunt’s house in Door County, Wisconsin. They’re smiling at Cash, who took the picture. Russ’s arm runs along the back of the swing behind Irene, and Irene’s hand rests on Russ’s thigh, lightly but proprietarily. Why wouldn’t it? He was her husband of thirty-five years. She would characterize Russ’s expression as content. Irene then flashes back to the photograph she found of him and Rosie lying in the hammock. He had looked ecstatic, as though he had no idea how he’d gotten so lucky. A girlfriend whose beauty was as rarefied as the Mona Lisa’s.
Irene had wanted to smash the photograph of Russ and Rosie but she feels an even greater violence toward this picture of her and Russ. The audacity of him to smile at the camera as though nothing is amiss. As though he doesn’t have a mistress and a child waiting for him down in the Caribbean!
Irene steadies her breathing and checks out the window. Baker is drinking a beer, his legs dangling in the water. Maia is carrying Floyd around the pool on her shoulders. He’s shrieking with joy. He adores her.
Irene digs a little deeper in the box and finds the navy leather photo album and the red vinyl photo album. These hold pictures of the boys growing up. She can see the snapshots without looking at them: Baker on the pitcher’s mound in his green and yellow uniform, all spindly arms and legs; Cash on the ski slopes, goggles resting on top of his helmet, braces glinting in the glare off the snow; both boys in khakis and navy blazers escorting Milly out of church on Easter.
Beneath these is a photograph of Baker and Anna on their wedding day. Anna is stunning in her sleek ivory silk, but she’s not smiling.
Irene closes up the box and puts it in the closet. When she’s had a chance to properly go through it, she’ll show some of the pictures of Baker and Cash to Maia. But for now, it’s important that Maia not see any of the photos. What would she think if she saw the picture of Russ and Irene on the swing? Irene shudders. She would never put a child through what she has just experienced—being starkly confronted with evidence that she was being lied to.
At dinner, Maia says, “So what was in the boxes?”
“Christmas ornaments,” Irene says. “And other knickknacks from my house in Iowa.”
Maia takes a knife to her fried chicken. “I had to give up being a vegan,” she says. “It was too hard.”
“How’s the bath-bomb business?” Irene asks.
“I kind of gave that up too,” Maia says. “I’m busy with other things.”
“What kinds of things?” Baker asks. “Not sports? I was supposed to coach the upper-school baseball team but only four kids signed up—three girls and a boy.”
“Not sports,” Maia says. “I hang out with my friends mostly. Joanie, Colton, Bright, and…Shane. Shane is sort of a special friend.” Maia’s face shines and for a moment, her beauty takes Irene’s breath away. She’s Milly, she’s Russ, and she’s someone else—Rosie, Irene supposes.
Maia makes it through the entire meal talking about her life without mentioning Huck even once. This must be on purpose; maybe Maia thinks Huck is a forbidden topic.
Irene clears her throat. “How’s your grandfather?” As soon as the words are out, she feels like she’s lost a test of wills.
“Oh,” Maia says, shrugging. “He’s good.” This seems to be all Irene is going to get. He’s good. He’s good? Then Maia locks eyes with Irene and says, “He misses you.”
Irene is startled by the simple frankness of this statement. I miss him too, she thinks—and it’s the first time she’s allowed herself to admit it.
“He gave me this to deliver,” Maia says. She pulls an envelope that has been folded in half out of the back pocket of her shorts.
“Oh,” Irene says. Her name is on the front in Huck’s handwriting. Maybe it’s an accounting of what she owes him for rent and utilities—but she knows Huck wouldn’t ask for money even if he were angry. “Thank you.” She takes the envelope. “Who wants dessert?”
She would like to throw the envelope away unopened, but she isn’t strong enough. She waits until Baker returns from running Maia home and starts giving Floyd a bath, then she takes the envelope to the back deck and opens it.
It’s a letter.
Dear AC,
Maybe you’ll read this, maybe you won’t. In the event you are reading this, I want to start by saying that this is not an apology because I didn’t do anything wrong.
When LeeAnn died and Rosie got back together with Russ, she was nearly thirty years old. She described Russ as “this man I’m seeing, Russell Steele”—she said his name to me only that once—and I had no idea that this was the same man as “the Pirate,” the one who had gotten her pregnant. She very deliberately led me to believe it was someone new.
I asked the usual questions: Where was he from, what did he do, when could I meet him? Rosie provided no answers. She wanted to keep the relationship private; she was concerned that the island would poke its nose into her business. After the way that LeeAnn rallied every single one of her friends and relations against Oscar Cobb, I couldn’t blame Rosie for feeling this way. Rosie told me that, just like certain plants, some relationships do best with a lot of sunlight, and some thrive hidden in the shade, and her new relationship was the latter. It concerned me, I made that clear, but I also want to explain that I was lonely without
