Of himself and Effie he’d sometimes said, with a grin, rolling his eyes, “We love each other, we just don’t like each other that much.”

Their friends, and the people at church, said, “They’re a good team. They lean on each other.”

They were old. Loving and leaving were no longer questions they asked of themselves. After Genie Taylor, and the unfortunate kiss with Vivian, Henry was never again unfaithful to her. He might have been, if the right woman had ever approached him, but none had. He was still handsome, he thought, though he’d lost his hair and developed a generous paunch. He and Effie barely spoke; they could read each other’s minds. He always made a big to-do for her birthday, which she pretended to hate. Whatever they said, whatever anyone said, they belonged together.

A few months after Effie died—she’d been just shy of seventy-three—Henry went through the things in her room. (They’d slept in separate rooms for more than twenty years. It was the secret to a happy marriage, he liked to say.) Under her bed he found a shoe box packed with letters—dozens of them, all from Charlie Morrell, addressed to no name, only to a P.O. box in Signal Creek. He flipped through a few of the envelopes, looking at the postmarks. 1971. 1976. 1985. A faint spicy scent rose up from them. He pulled one of the letters out, from 1974, and opened it, and read:

Darling,

It should be easy to tell Millie I have business that weekend, if you really think he’ll be away, but I’m not sure my heart can take it again if …

He folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope, put the envelope back with the others, and closed the shoe box, then slid the shoe box back under the bed.

His heart ached. He spent the rest of the day in front of the television, paying no attention to it. But they had been through so much together. Joy and misery. Everyday comforts and complaints. They’d had a life together, and they’d loved each other. What did Charlie Morrell matter? Kate came by after work that evening with the groceries and sat with him for a while, and they chatted amiably.

He thought of the shoe box often, but never read the letters inside.