“I just started in this room,” Dolly said, defensive despite her nerves. “I did the dining room and parlor before this. It isn’t easy, you know, when the place has been let go like this.”

JJ sighed, and stepped unevenly into the room, looking up at the kitchen ceiling.

Why, there’s something the matter with him, the way he walks, Dolly realized.

“My dad didn’t tell me he was getting help for me,” he said. “I guess it’s a good thing. I guess he figured I’d need it.”

“Oh!” Dolly said, taken aback.

“Would you make up a bed for me on the couch in the living room?”

“Of course,” Dolly said, and quickly turned from him.

She found a spare set of sheets in a linen closet upstairs, and started down with them clutched to her stomach, hoping that JJ wouldn’t ask too many questions and catch her in her lie. But if he really thought she was there working for his father, how was she ever going to get out of it? Not that she wanted to give up on the house—but continuing to work on it with JJ Mickelson present was going to be awkward, to say the least.

Descending the stairs, she noticed with dismay the dust lurking in the corners of the front room and weighing down the velvety maroon drapes. There was so much to do to get the house in shape, but now that JJ was here, Dolly couldn’t help but realize that her efforts to prepare the house for Byron were presumptuous. The pictures of the Mickelson family came easily to her: Wilma sitting on the end of the burgundy couch talking on the telephone; Chase running down the stairs for dinner or a baseball game. She had claimed the house and the family’s stories for her own, and it was discomforting to encounter someone to whom they really belonged.

When she reached the bottom of the steps and turned to walk down the hall toward the living room, she saw JJ straight ahead through the door, standing at the mantel, his hands shoved in his pants pockets, staring at the portraits lined up there. She could see by the way he held his shoulders that he had his own share of memories, and she felt a curious swell in her heart, watching him. He’d taken off his hat, exposing his thick, dark hair. He was nearly as thin as the POWs in photos she’d seen after the war. Picking up one of the portraits, he furrowed his brow.

He seemed both dangerous and pitiful, like a hurt stray dog. She pressed herself to continue toward him, and passed behind him with the sheets, noticing that he had taken all the covers off the furniture and left them in a heap on the floor. Typical.

“Do you think he’s better-looking than I am?” he asked, turning toward her.