My heart stops. My mother’s birthmark—Joy’s birthmark—both hidden where only someone with intimate knowledge of a person’s body would ever see. I stare at him, but he doesn’t blink. Either he is an expert liar who is repeating something my father told him—though why the impersonal Tom Aldiss would tell anyone something as personal as that is beyond me—or he has seen that birthmark himself. Since I have never before had cause to think Paul Schuster a liar, and since there is no other way he would have seen it, I have to accept that he and my mother had an affair. And if I accept that, I realize with a start, I have no reason to doubt the outcome.

Overwhelmed, I back away.

“Mallory.”

I hold up a hand, warding off any paternal words as I struggle to accept. There’s still the matter of where he’s been all my life, why he didn’t come forward either after I moved to New York or after Mom died. There’s still the matter of where he was when my daughter—his granddaughter—was born. Tom wasn’t around. Paul might have been.

I feel bitter about it all, confused by a world that apparently considers the whole truth and nothing but to be optional. Mostly, I feel swamped. Too much is shifting underfoot—my relationship with my sisters, my faith in my best friend, my father’s death. And yes, I’ll always think of Tom Aldiss as my father. But the rest? I’ve lost control of things I thought I knew.

Paul says my name again. Ignoring it, I turn and run. I have no destination. All I know is that I’m grateful Joy isn’t here, grateful that the heels Margo bought me are low, grateful that the sea wall path takes me away from where I’ve just been.

After following it along a wide arc, I see the parking lot ahead. The hearse is gone, for which I’m grateful as well. I see Chrissie’s CR-V, Lina’s Civic, and Paul’s Lexus. I see the Volvo that says Anne is still here, and a dirty truck with the cemetery logo on the side and a wheelbarrow in the back.

I also see Jack’s Tahoe. Fortunately, it is unlocked, and while it’s hot inside, I don’t care. Pulling out my phone, I text him.

I’m in your truck. Can we go?

Chapter 26

Jack trots up to the truck minutes later. His face is damp with sweat, and his frown lines are pronounced. Eyeing me with worry, he tosses his blazer in back, starts the engine, and turns on the AC full force. Then he reaches an arm sideways and cups my head in his palm. There is a calm in the gesture that belies whatever turmoil those frown lines betray.