Eileen looked up at Simon, his pained expression, his false belief that he might have somehow saved Clare from herself. Her sister, Clare, the same girl who had always, always, fearlessly marched ahead into God-knows-whatever unknown and hardly blinked an eye. That he even entertained the idea he could have deciphered Clare made Eileen seriously wonder if he had ever really known his wife at all. Because to know Clare, truly, was to accept the fact that you couldn’t ever know what was swirling beneath her beautiful surface. She was a mystery, and aside from the money and fame that Clare manifested, the mystery was her single greatest draw, and certainly the most enduring. Had Simon never realized it? Really? Because Eileen had managed to work that all out by the time she was twelve.

“Why not her first book?”

“Hmm? Sorry, what was that?”

“You said, aside from her first book, she’d included you in creating every other one. Why not the first?”

“Oh.” He shrugged and raised one eyebrow. “Well, she wrote that first when we were only getting to know each other. Before we fell in love, I suppose.”

Eileen racked her brains, trying to remember. “Which book was that? I can’t remember the title of her first book.”

“Yes, well that’s because it was never published. She wrote it during her short story days back in—”

“Brooklyn,” Eileen finished. “And actually, I think I did read it. I must have. Back then I used to read all Clare’s stuff.”

Simon, despite his haggard and grief-stricken self, cracked a small smile. “Of course. You were her only fan.” He nodded.

“What?” Eileen tilted her head to the side.

Simon took a sip of his now-fresh cup of black coffee. “When I first met Clare, in that run-down bar on its way out of business trying desperately to stay afloat by holding readings for local writers, she told me her sister was her only fan.” Simon raised his coffee cup to Eileen across the island. “So, brava, sister Eileen. If not for you, one of the most prolific and popular fiction writers of our time may have thrown in the towel before the world had a chance to show up and kneel at her door.” He took a long drink from his coffee and lowered the cup to the counter with a clank that rang out.

“Some fan. I can’t even remember now what that book was about. Why didn’t it ever publish?”