I complied, giving both the Avalon number and the Philadelphia number.
“What’s wrong?” Dan asked.
I sat in a chair at the kitchen table. “Lillian isn’t staying with her sister.”
“Does she have more than one sister?” he asked. I shook my head. “Huh. That’s strange. Maybe her train was delayed?”
“Maybe. But her sister didn’t know she was coming.” My shoulders dropped. “She said she would always be just a phone call or a letter away. I don’t understand.”
“It’s a misunderstanding,” Dan said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be in touch soon to let you know where she is.”
I looked up at him and nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“What now?”
I sighed. “I guess it’s time to say goodbye.”
We walked to the jetty at 8th Street, and I climbed up onto it, then Dan handed me the urn. He climbed up as well, but I put a hand on his chest. “I need to do this alone,” I said.
He nodded and kissed my cheek before climbing down. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
I picked my way along the rocks carefully, holding the urn under my arm, until I reached the end.
“I guess this is it,” I said to the urn. “I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there, Ada. I am. But thank you. For everything.”
I unscrewed the lid and peered inside.
But instead of ashes, there were papers.
I blinked heavily. The crematorium had messed up. Of all the mistakes to make. I shook my head angrily and fished out the papers.
Then I dropped the urn.
They weren’t papers. One was a photograph of Ada and Lillian, holding hands in front of a house I had never seen, lined with palm trees. They were facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, and if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they were a couple. There was an address on the back.
The second was a postcard from Key West. The tiny hairs on my neck stood on end as I turned it over.
There, in Ada’s unmistakable scrawl, was a note.
My darling Marilyn,
Live the life you want. Love whom you want. And don’t forget to write.
XOX,
Ada
For a moment, the world spun. Love whom you want. The picture. The secret door to Lillian’s room. The album. The refusal to tell me who her second great love was. Saying I wouldn’t find it with the other photographs. The world loves to destroy what it doesn’t understand. Lillian’s hand on hers when she said that.
My mouth fell open.
But—
Don’t forget to write. My book. She meant my book.
Except—
The Key West house wasn’t among the assets Mr. Cohen had outlined.
She already gave me what I was getting, Lillian had said.
I’ve got tricks up my sleeve yet, Ada had told me as I was leaving Avalon.
She’s not really gone, Lillian had said as we walked into the synagogue.
The woman at the back of the funeral.
Don’t forget to write.
The address on the back of the picture.
Don’t forget to write.
My eyes widened, realizing that like so many things Ada said and did, there was a double meaning there.
Dan was waiting for me at the base of the jetty, just like he said he would be. “Where to now?” he asked.
I smiled broadly. “Have you ever been to Key West?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t.”
“Up for the drive?”
“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he said.
“Good. Let’s go. Tonight.”
“What’s in Key West?”
“Everything,” I said.
Ada was right. I did know how this ended all along.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was born on the beach in Avalon, New Jersey, just a couple of days after She’s Up to No Good came out. Marilyn’s character came to me as my husband pulled our umbrella out of its sheath, and by the time he had put it up （something that I, like Marilyn, couldn’t have done easily）， I had a general plot. I wrote half of the outline on my phone under that umbrella and the rest after the kids went to bed that night. And then the story just poured out of me.
Thank you to my editor, Alicia Clancy, and the entire team at Lake Union for taking a chance on this story before I had even written it. And thank you for gently rejecting the two ideas before this one—they weren’t right, and when it’s the right story, it just flows. And, boy, did this one flow!
Thank you to my agent extraordinaire, Rachel Beck. Even though I didn’t join you in a third pregnancy, we’re bonded for life, and I love both that and you.
Thank you to Liza Dawson and the whole team at Liza Dawson and Associates for taking over seamlessly when Rachel was out. I was nervous, but you were amazing!
Thank you to my husband, Nick, for picking up the slack so I could write this on such a tight deadline. Thank you for letting me bounce ideas off you with zero context and letting me talk my story out so it would work, and the million other ways you support me.
Thank you to my children, Jacob and Max. I know it’s a lot right now （not that you can read this yet） when Mommy has to work two jobs, but please know that I’m doing this for you, my loves. （And Sandy and Gracie.）
Thank you to my mother, Carole Goodman. I’ve never let anyone see unfinished work before. But because I was on such a tight deadline, I sent her this, a chapter a night, and she read it as I wrote—frequently sending me angry messages, telling me to write faster because she wanted more. Thank you, Mom. For everything.
Thank you to my father, Jordan Goodman, for knowing practically everything and knowing exactly who to ask the few times when you didn’t. Mom may say I’m Google, but I think that makes you the encyclopedia—the original know-it-all, and I appreciate you so much.
Thank you to my grandmother, Charlotte Chansky, for the lifetime of stories, support, and love.
This book would absolutely not exist without my aunt and uncle, Dolly and Marvin Band. They were 90 percent of my research, and there is no way I could have finished it on time without their help. From the cars, to how to get to Atlantic City before the AC Expressway, to what you wore on the boardwalk （with adorable pictures to prove it!）， to how people did their hair back then, the two of you knew everything and answered every single question I had immediately. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being so generous with your time, your memories, your support, and your love.
Thank you to my cousins Ken and Arlene Sirmarco for finding the perfect location for Ada’s house and sharing your memories of growing up in Philadelphia in the 1960s. You saved me hours of research, and I’m so, so sorry Ken isn’t here to see the finished product.
Thank you to my brother, Adam, sister-in-law, Nicole, and nephews Cam and Luke. Love you to the moon and back.
Jennifer Doehner Lucina. Are there even still words? I couldn’t do any of this without you. Thank you for catching every typo, and thank you for twenty-eight years of friendship （which is CLEARLY bad math because we’re both younger than that, and I refuse to hear otherwise）。 Love you so much!
Thank you to my uncle Michael Chansky and aunt Stephanie Abbuhl, for letting us use your Avalon house so generously. （And to my cousins Andrew, Peter, and Ben, for not being in town the week I came up with this book!） I hope the references to familiar places make you smile.