I’ve just put the pan on the stove when the doorbell rings, and for one wild moment, I feel a bolt of hope tear through me. Could he have changed his mind? I flip off the burner and creep past the living room curtains, to the foyer, and wait.
It’s not him. It can’t be him.
The bell rings again, followed by the sharp rap of the knocker. I hold my breath, willing whoever it is to go away. It’s Rory, of course. Or Camilla. They’ve come by three times already, and three times I’ve ignored them. Or perhaps it’s Daniel, braving the drippy weather to come check on me again. I don’t want to see him either. He knows too much of my story as it is. I have no wish to be cross-examined for the rest.
“Soline?” A woman’s voice, muffled through the door. “Soline, it’s Thia.”
Thia. After all these years. My heart thunders in my ears, the saliva suddenly thick in my mouth. I lean close to the door, a hand on the knob. It’s a mistake, I know, but I’m weak.
“Are you alone?”
“I can be,” comes her answer. “If you want me to be.”
I turn the knob and pull the door back a few inches, glimpsing a narrow slice of unfamiliar face. A full mouth, the bridge of a too-wide nose, skin that shows the wear and tear of someone who spends too much time in the sun. And an eye. Pale blue-green, with flecks of gold around the iris. The same as Anson’s.
I open the door and stand with my hands at my sides, stunned to find her on my front steps, stunned by all of this. Even now, the similarities between them are impossible to ignore. But there’s something else, too, that keeps my eyes fixed on her, something just outside my grasp.
“Why are you here?” My throat is rusty from disuse and too many tears.
“I want to talk to you,” she says, her voice low and steady, as if addressing an animal that might skitter away. “About what happened after you left my father’s house.”
I keep my hand on the knob, pleased that the cold drizzle is slowly soaking through her shirt. Suddenly I’m very angry with her. “I know what happened. Your brother came home, and no one told me.”
“Please, can we all just sit down and talk?”
All? My chest tightens as I register the word. “Is he . . . Who’s with you?”
“Just Rory and Camilla. They’re in the car. I know you’re angry and hurt, and you have every right to be both, but there are things you need to know, Soline. Other things.”
There’s an ominous tone to her voice now, and I feel my stomach knot. “What . . . other things?”
“Please. I’m standing in the rain, and the steps aren’t the place to have this discussion. Let us come in.”
I drop my hand from the knob and step back. Thia looks down the street and waves, a signal for them to come. I catch a glimpse of myself in the foyer mirror as I turn away. I’m a ghost, pale and disheveled, my eyes heavy and shadowed with grief. I drag a hand through my hair, trying to tame it, then realize I’m wearing nothing but the robe I’ve had on for four days.
“I’ll need a moment to dress.”
They’re in the living room when I return. Rory and Camilla are on the sofa. Thia is perched on the edge of a chair, her hair clinging damply to her forehead and neck. She looks me over, clearly relieved that I’ve tidied myself up. I’ve run a brush through my hair and traded my robe for a cardigan and slacks. Thia’s eyes linger on my white cotton gloves before sliding away. But there’s something else in the way she’s looking at me, the way they’re all looking at me. Pity mingled with discomfort, and I find myself wishing I hadn’t let them in.
“All right, you’re here. Say what you came to say, then go.”
“We think you should sit down,” Camilla says, patting the sofa cushion beside hers. “Here, between us.”
“I don’t want to sit.” I sound petulant now, like a cranky child.
Rory looks at me, eyes pleading. “Please, Soline. We have something we want to show you. Something that might help make all of this . . . easier. Please come sit down.”
I drop down beside her, sitting stiffly with my hands in my lap. Whatever this is, I want it over with.
Rory reaches into a black nylon tote, pulling out what looks like a photo album. I steel myself for something; I don’t know what. And then she presses the album into my hands. “Open it.”
The gloves make me clumsy as I attempt to turn back the cover. Rory reaches over to help me, and then I’m staring at an old black-and-white photograph. A tiny girl with pale curls and wide-set eyes, dressed in boots and a puffy snowsuit. She’s three, perhaps four, and familiar, though I have never seen the photo before. I glance at Rory, not sure what’s happening or what’s expected of me.