I leaned forward. “That’s what the A was for?”

“Oh yes.” She nodded hard enough to make her loose skin flap, and her voice was more earnest than honest. “And you’re very correct—he was your father, if your mother was to be believed. He believed her, that much was certain. How’d you learn of him?”

“I went to Pine Breeze.”

“Don’t lie to me, child,” she snapped. “Not if you want straight answers in return, like you say you do. Pine Breeze has been torn down.”

“No, it was shut down. And it’s about to be torn down, but it still stands—just as they abandoned it twenty-five years ago. I dug around in there until I found Leslie’s files, and those files included some letters from A, presumably Arthur.”

“What did those letters say?” She was on the literal edge of her seat now, our faces only feet apart. I sensed an advantage, but I didn’t want to press it too hard or reveal too much. I leaned back again and took another swig. It was easier to imbibe after twothirds of a glass, but not much easier. I’d still rather drink turpentine.

“Mostly that he missed her, and he wanted her to leave Pine Breeze. He wanted her to move to a facility closer to him. He also complained a lot because she wouldn’t write him back.”

“Is that all?”

“Basically.”

She retreated too, distrusting my slippery word but sinking against the winged chair back and exhaling. She polished off the rest of her drink in one quick upward tip of the glass.

“So, who was he?”

“Arthur?”

“Yes, Arthur. Who was my father?”

Her cheek twitched, poorly smothering a smile. “You won’t like the answer.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know, people keep telling me that—no matter what questions I ask. I’d rather know something unpleasant for certain than wonder after the truth for the rest of my life. Please, Tatie.”

She rose and set her glass on the bar, empty except for the halfmelted ice cubes stacked on the bottom. Then she moved to a bookcase laden with old volumes and accented with family photographs. She pulled one of the pictures down, and handed it towards me. I obliged her offer by standing and crossing the room to meet her, taking the photo by the frame and staring at the man and woman within.

“That’s Arthur. And the woman beside him is—”

“His wife,” I guessed.

“Yes. You knew already?”

“That much Lulu told me.”

“And what else?”

“Nothing,” I confessed. “All she said was that he was married.”