“In Stone Harbor, with my mom and dad,” he said. “Our old summer place. They live there all the time now.”

“Why on earth would she leave this house behind like that?”

“That’s what I’m getting to,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Looking at him, she felt a spark of something deep within her, something that was dreadfully wrong to feel about a man who was not her husband, and her breath caught.

But then she reassured herself: It wasn’t JJ, really. She liked him—was attached to him, even, in a friendly way. She wanted the best for him, hoped he would stop drinking, and find direction in his life. All of those things were true. But what had really captured her was the house, and the story of JJ’s family. And Dolly had asked for the story, had asked JJ to spin a pseudo-fantasy of the past and this house for her, in lieu of facing her own reality, in lieu of going home to her own little bungalow and the problems in her own little family.

She decided then: She would stay to the end of the story, and then she would go home. Honestly. And face reality! Give up the idea that the Mickelson house could refine her marriage. Somehow work on bridging the distance between her and Byron. Stop seeking excitement in inappropriate places. Grow up! Convince Byron to take her out for dinner occasionally, or even fishing. Not that she liked fishing, but someone had to make a compromise, and if he meant as much to her as she kept telling herself he did, it might as well be her.

“Nick was my grandpa’s son,” JJ said.

Dolly’s heart seemed to stop; her worries flew from her mind. “What?”

“That’s why it was so funny about him not believing in the curse,” he said. “Because that was what did him in. Cheating. It did my grandma in, too. They tried to keep it from her, but she found out.”

THE MICKELSON HOUSE

502 W. First Street, Pine Rapids

Thursday, November 22, 1945

Wilma stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She had just basted the turkey, the potatoes were boiling, the yams were in the oven, the rolls were rising, and the gelatin salad was made. The pies—pumpkin and apple—she had baked yesterday.

She left Anne watching things, and thought she would go check on JJ. She wondered if he would have any appetite at all, if he would be able to come downstairs for dinner.

She started down the hall, but stopped when she heard hushed voices. Her sons. Talking in the living room. They sounded upset. She clutched her apron in her hands and stood listening.

“Did he admit it?” Harry said.

“More or less,” said Jack. He sounded angry.

“So I was right? His secretary?”