“Did you think I would stop asking?”
“I hoped you would.”
“Why?”
“Because every time you asked about your mother, I remembered the worst year of my life.”
Silas’s expression changed.
Not into anger.
Into understanding.
“You thought if you didn’t talk about it, you wouldn’t remember.”
“Yes.”
“Did it work?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
Silas reached across the counter and moved the folded dish towel toward him.
“Then you can stop trying.”
Daniel pressed his fingertips to the towel.
For the first time that day, he smiled.
Upstairs, Evelyn was preparing the guest room. When I checked in by phone that evening, Daniel told me she had opened her overnight bag and found three objects she did not remember packing: a silver picture frame, a spool of blue thread, and an old address book.
The address book contained Elena’s name.
Beside it, in Walter’s handwriting, was a post office box number.
