“I doubt he’s her guy. I don’t know what his connection is.”

“Start making a list of things you need, and text me.” She hung up.

Back in the girls’ room, I started on the dresser that belonged to Holly. Clothes were folded and stacked, although they showed signs of rummaging. I wondered if Wendy did everyone’s laundry or if her cleaning lady, due to come Thursday, did it for them. I was really hoping for the latter.

I found the usual. After a cursory examination of the third drawer, I was about to move on, but the bottom pair of cargo shorts looked oddly lumpy. I found a small treasure trove inside the pockets.

I emptied them on Holly’s bed. My niece doesn’t show much emotion, except anger, of course, but as I removed objects, everything she repressed was laid out on the bedspread—a Bryce Wainwright museum. There was a worn leather key chain inscribed with BW, and an expired Connecticut driver’s license with a smiling photo of her father. Bryce had brown hair and eyes like Holly’s, remarkably even features under a widow’s peak, and the physique of a man who knew he had to stay in shape, even under the ocean. There were also carefully folded and creased birthday cards he’d sent his daughter.

Holly might not be asking questions about her mother, at least not yet, but here was the evidence that she missed her dad.

Carefully I put everything back into the correct pockets, refolded the shorts and replaced them in the drawer. Nothing else turned up.

I conducted the same search in Noelle’s dresser. Nothing was hidden in clothing, but under a stack of sweaters in the bottom drawer—sweaters that wouldn’t get much wear in Seabank—I found a carved wooden box, inlaid with chipped mother-of-pearl, most likely a rescue from the trash. If Holly’s pocket stash was a testament to how much she loved and missed her father, this was the same. Only the target of affection was my sister.

On Noelle’s bed I carefully removed items, starting with a perfume bottle labeled Coach, the size a woman might travel with or buy as a trial. I removed the top and recognized the scent. The last time I’d seen my sister we had lounged by my parents’ pool, Wendy in a bikini, me in the one-piece that covered the scars on my chest. I’d refused to tell her how fabulous she smelled, for fear I would receive the entire collection of whatever it was on the next holiday.

The pile included some outdated costume jewelry. The turquoise-and-coral necklace had a broken clasp. One sparkly earring was missing a post. I found half a silver heart on a tarnished chain, along with a metal cuff bracelet that was dented and bent out of shape.

Along with everything else, I was surprised to find cards from Bryce to Wendy, cards with sappy, romantic messages that many women would keep forever. Had Noelle retrieved them from the trash? From Wendy’s own collection of keepsakes? I hadn’t seen much sentiment on display here, but it was possible all the real mementoes of Wendy’s marriage were still in their house in Connecticut.