Mrs. Murphy picked up a silver-framed photograph from on top of an upright piano. The picture was of a young couple, bride and groom, standing stiffly together as if they were perched atop a wedding cake. The bride wore a high-necked silk gown with mutton sleeves, the skirt falling to a graceful train behind her. A cascade of roses rested in her arms. Alongside her stood a much taller man, his thick dark hair parted and slicked down. He wore a military uniform, epaulets on the shoulders and a narrow leather strap across his chest. His cap was tucked under one arm and his other arm was linked in hers.

“Me and Murph,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Nineteen sixty. We were married at Fort Bragg.”

“He was handsome,” Becca said.

“Bless his heart, he was that and more. Cunning devil one minute, saint the next. I just don’t know—” She pulled a Kleenex from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s been hard. Sometimes I feel so lost, I want to disappear.”

Becca stepped over and touched Mrs. Murphy’s arm. “When did you lose him?”

Mrs. Murphy took a deep breath, unable for a moment to speak. “A year ago. Massive heart attack. Just a few weeks after he sold his dental practice. I told him not to retire.” She reached for another framed picture on the piano. The older man in the picture was still handsome, his hair now a lush white pompadour over defiantly dark eyebrows. Mrs. Murphy held the picture to her chest for a few moments, then laid it facedown on the piano. “Went, just like that.” There was no sound when she snapped her fingers. “Doctors said even if he’d been in the hospital when it happened, they couldn’t have saved him.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Becca said, as only she could, as if she genuinely shared Mrs. Murphy’s grief over the death of this man she’d never met.

Emily sidled over to the pile of newspapers on the floor beside the lounge chair. The date of the one on top was July 14, 2018. More than a year ago. A Belleek vase on the mantel, white porcelain with shamrocks, was holding . . . what? Maybe they’d been roses, but now they were gray and mummified. The vase sat among what were most likely last year’s Christmas cards.