More than once, Donna had wondered how it had happened that she had grown to be someone who had carved out a small, but successful, corner of the world, how she had learned to become strong and competent and in control of many things, a woman she often didn’t recognize, especially when she peeked inside the trunk and was reminded of the things she supposed she should forget about but never could. Not even a little.

It had taken a long time for her to find it; she’d started by buying and selling antiques out of what had been her parents’ bedroom in the triple-decker where she and Kevin had moved after her parents had both died. When she finally was able to buy the shop on Newbury Street, she insisted that their records be part of the sale. Which was how she was reunited with the Louis Vuitton. By then it belonged to the son of the woman who had plucked it from the shop window many years earlier, but she had since died. The son didn’t want it. He didn’t even know its true value.

So finally Donna had the only material thing that she’d ever longed for. The only place that was worthy of holding her greatest treasures.

* * *

“Jesus Christ,” Kevin muttered as he flicked the top off a can of beer and swept a hand across his face—his cheek, his mouth, his chin, his other cheek. His eyes remained glazed, perched on the edge of tears.

Annie sat across from him on the canvas drop cloths that were spread across half of the great room floor where new hardwood had been partially installed by the workers who’d been told to leave.

“I can’t believe she didn’t tell me,” he said into the air. “All this time, she never told me. What was she waiting for?”

“Maybe until she felt sure she was cured.”

“Huh.” He slugged the beer.

It had been a long day. Annie was exhausted, and wanted only to go to bed. “Look, Kevin. We don’t have to figure out what to do this minute. We can sleep on it. Let it settle in, you know?” If Murphy had been there—the professional Murphy, in her role as a therapist—Annie expected she would have advised Kevin to take time to process the news.

“Mom’s always been a master at keeping secrets. But this one? Jesus. It’s even worse than the fact that she never told me about you until after she’d met you.”

Annie hadn’t known that. She wanted to reach over, grab his beer, and chug it. “She must have been trying to protect you.”

“Or you. Or her.”

“I guess.”