She didn’t know whom she was trying to fool, opening everything else first, like she wasn’t dying to know what was in the little polka-dot box. It wasn’t as if the rest didn’t matter: There was a pendant that she was fairly sure Daisy and Melody must have picked out on one of their jaunts to some art fair or other. Ginger gave her a small compass in a brass case with a note that said, So you can always find your way. And June and her family had given Laurie a framed photo of Dot’s house that had been taken in 1974 （thank you, local historical society）， side by side with one taken earlier in the summer.
Laurie sat at Dot’s dining room table with the box in front of her, and finally she eased the bow off the top and tore away the paper. When she opened it, there was a piece of white copy paper folded inside. She unfolded it and drew in her breath. It was a grainy photocopy of an article from a 1995 college alumni magazine, reporting on the retirement of the chemist John Edward Harlan, class of 1950, longtime resident of Bangor. It said he had spent most of his career studying the structure of proteins, although Laurie got a little lost in the specifics. He was married and he had four kids, and he hoped to spend his retirement gardening and traveling.
Pointing at the bottom of the page was an arrow written in black marker, which Laurie recognized as the universal, if nonsensical, sign for “turn me over.” So she did. And on the back, it said, “John E. Harlan, Gatecrest at Ivywood, Apartment 215, Carrywick, ME.” It took only a minute to look up Gatecrest at Ivywood and find that it was an assisted living community.
Nick’s phone rang only once. “Hello, Sass,” he said.
“He’s alive?” she said. “He’s still alive, just chilling in assisted living?”
“He was when I talked to him yesterday.”
She started tapping her fingers on the table. “What did you talk about? What did he say?”
“Well,” Nick said, “I just told him that Dot Bennett’s great-niece was trying to put together some family history and thought he might be able to help.”
“And?”
“He knew Dot had passed, and he told me that if there was anything he could do, he’d be happy to talk.”
“Do you think he’ll let me come by?”
“I can do better than that. He’s expecting us. Well, you. Well, no, us. If that’s okay with you.”
“Of course it is. But when? I’m leaving soon.”
“That’s why I told him we’d come tomorrow. Sorry to spring it on you, but I asked June, and she thought you could spare the time in the afternoon. I didn’t really think you’d be mad.”
Laurie shook her head, even though nobody could see her. “I’m not. I’m not mad at all. I would love to go.”
“That’s great,” he said. “It will be nice to take one more trip together before you have to go.”
“It sure will,” she said.
“Happy birthday, Sass.”
“Thank you, Nick.”
She went to bed restless, wishing he were there, thinking maybe this time she would have slept better that way.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gatecrest at Ivywood was at the end of a long driveway that wound between two low green hills. It was made up of a central brick building and two broad, flat wings that sprawled out on both sides. Lots of the windows had bird feeders or hanging planters, and a white-haired woman came out through the front doors walking her dog just as they pulled in to park. “This doesn’t seem like a bad place to end up, all things considered,” Nick said as he turned off his car. “It must be working out for John, I guess, if he’s ninety-four years old.”
“You know, if he moved here after he retired, he’s probably been here for twenty years? Longer? He’s been here on this property since…oh boy, Nick. He’s been here since we were dating.” She whistled. “Either he’s been here a long time or our history is not as old as I thought.”
“Little bit of both?” he said, locking the car and gesturing toward the front doors. “They know we’re coming.”
They did. The very kind woman at the desk had their names, and she directed them to the elevator and said John’s apartment was up one level and to the left. He was one of their longest-term residents, she said. He’d arrived not long after they opened, in 1998. She gave them visitor badges to wear and reminded them there was no smoking.
Armed with all this, Nick and Laurie walked down a long hall to the elevator and stepped inside. It was large, undoubtedly to accommodate carts and wheelchairs, and when they stopped moving, the doors opened onto a blue-carpeted hall and a serene hush. They turned left and were soon at the open door labeled JOHN HARLAN. A painting of three boats hung on the wall outside his room, and when they stepped inside, they saw him sitting in a chair by the window, looking at the newspaper. Nick knocked on the open door. “Excuse me, Mr. Harlan?”