“The sun’s not even out,” I said.

“I’m sun-sensitive and you should protect your skin, too, so you won’t grow to look like a worn-out easy chair.”

“Your concern is deeply moving.”

The sky was lightening along the edges of the mountains in the distance, and the air carried the heady perfume of all the antique roses, strongest in the morning dew.

A pair of red-handled Felco pruners had been left on the ground. I picked them up and wiped them clean on my jeans. I walked to a fragrant climbing rose, Madame Alfred Carriere in spectacular bloom, the snowy imbricated petals almost glowing in the predawn shadows.

I said, “It was quite astonishing to find out that I was engaged to Oswald.”

“I know I was astonished when it happened.”

“Did you object to my engagement to your grandson?”

“You managed to wreck that all on your own. I’m having a very difficult time believing that you actually have amnesia.”

I snipped dead flowers off the rosebush. “I didn’t believe it either until I saw myself in a mirror. My hair hasn’t been this long since I lived with my grandmother,” I said. “My mother Regina didn’t like dealing with it so she’d take me to have it hacked off every four months. I looked like a boy.”

“And you’ve been compensating for your gender confusion ever since,” Edna snarked.

I cut off a flower and stuck it in my hair. “Do you think so?”

“Consult your psychiatrist.”

“Let’s walk around and see what’s here. I want to test my superpowers, too. Tell me if you see a fly so I can try to snatch it out of the air.”

“You don’t have any superpowers.” We walked across the field toward the white cottage.

“Who lives there? It’s darling.”

“I do for now. It’s the guesthouse.” Then she said, “You and Oswald lived in it for a while. You called it the Love Shack.”

It hit me then, what I had lost: happiness with a fabulous man, a home, family. I shook off these thoughts and pointed to two structures down the drive from the house. “What are they?”

“One’s the swimming pool compound and the other is the barn. Even with memory loss, you should know what a barn looks like. Heaven knows, you bored me enough nattering on about Faulkner and ‘Barn Burning.’”

“Mrs. Grant, treat me any way you wish, but I will not hear you disparage William Faulkner. In fact, I think we should discuss his short stories as we traipse around the fields.”

“Please God, no,” she said, but the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.