“But this shirt wasn’t mine.” Quinn held it up to her face, closed her eyes, and inhaled. “Or Wally’s.” Another BU boyfriend? No wonder Quinn’s husband hadn’t wanted it in his house.

“Was T-shirt man the one that got away?” Emily asked, wondering if it had been Ryan.

“Not exactly,” Quinn said, her cheeks coloring slightly. “But Wally knows the shirt’s not his. He goes off the rails, crazy jealous, if I mention any of my old boyfriends. It’s silly, really.”

Out of the blue Emily remembered the photo album she’d put together, pictures of herself and her high school sweetheart. Such a genuinely nice guy, he’d made her adolescence tolerable. She kept the album where she knew Frank wouldn’t look, in a box with her mother’s china. He’d never have understood why she kept those photos. She didn’t really understand herself.

Emily set her glass back down and held her cell phone high over her head. Aiming the camera down into the scrum, she took a picture, then checked the viewfinder, enlarging the image to see what was there. Was that a papasan chair? Quintessential dorm furniture. Easy to get into, nearly impossible to get out of. She’d once had one, its cushion upholstered in gold corduroy. Lying across this chair’s wicker frame was a rolled-up area rug.

“You think I’d be able to sell some of this?” Quinn asked. “Not that we need the money.”

There was no point in sugarcoating it. Emily indicated a pair of pre–World War II mahogany chests of drawers, cousins to the one she’d inherited from her own grandmother. “That’s sturdy and nice-looking, and thirty years ago you might have found a buyer. But these days, it’s what people refer to as”—she drew air quotes—“‘brown furniture.’ Frankly, it’s hard to give away. But there’d be a ready buyer for that kitchen set if you put it out at a yard sale.” She pointed to a 1950s kitchen table and matching chairs with their aluminum tubing and yellow-vinyl seats.

“Oh goody. A yard sale! And let’s not invite Wally.” Quinn laughed.

“Or you could donate. There’s a ton of charities and you’d get a tax deduction. I can find one that will pick up.”

“What I really should do is stuff all of my old shit down Wally’s goddamned—” Quinn broke off and stood perfectly still for a few moments. The bruise on her face had turned livid in the harsh light. Then she put her head back and drank from the bottle. Swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Think there are any charities that will come over and pick him up? Or maybe he’s just another worthless piece of—what did you call it?—brown furniture. Maybe I should just chuck him off the roof instead.”