“Sorry . . . whoops.” Carol Anne handed her the torn paper.

Amy dropped her half on the floor, stared straight ahead. She didn’t want the notes; she didn’t want to hold them, read them, know them. If she hadn’t been able to see them twenty-five years ago, now was not the time. Sitting in her dorm room, waiting, wondering, praying—that would have been the time to read the telegrams, not here in her parlor, in her home, at her Christmas party, with her son walking toward her with Nick’s daughter on his arm.

She glanced, frantic, around the room. Molly’s fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Raven, waved, moved toward Amy. Ms. Raven, whose divorce was final six months earlier, wore a dress cut low enough to reveal her divorce settlement—a brand-new pair of upright breasts.

Ms. Raven hugged Amy. “Oh, what a beautiful party. Thanks for inviting me.”

Amy smiled, she wasn’t sure how, as Carol Anne reached down and picked the scraps of paper off the floor.

“Oh, Ms. Raven, it sure is good to see you. I’m glad you came.”

“Listen, Amy, I am dying to know who is that very yummy man who you were just talking to. I’ve been watching him. . . .” She leaned in and whispered, “Is he single?”

Jack and Lisbeth joined them just as Ms. Raven finished her summation of Nick Lowry.

“That man is my dad,” Lisbeth said. “And the woman with him is my mother.”

“Sorry.” Ms. Raven held up her hands in surrender. “Just asking—no harm in asking.” She placed her hands on her curved décolletage and backed away from the group.

“Thanks for coming.” Amy patted Ms. Raven’s arm and turned to Jack and Lisbeth.

“Mom, where is Mr. Lowry?”

Where is Mr. Lowry?

“He and Eliza just, well, just left,” Amy stuttered.

Carol Anne shoved the torn papers in her purse, looked at Lisbeth. “If you run out there now, you can probably catch them.”

Lisbeth turned toward the door, then back at Amy. “What happened?”

Amy tilted her head in question.

“What happened? Did you say something to make them leave?” Lisbeth leaned closer.

Carol Anne stepped forward. “Lisbeth, I think maybe you’d better go find your parents, get a ride home with them.”

“Nothing happened, Lisbeth. Your mother needed to go home,” Amy said.

Jack clasped Lisbeth’s hand. “Come on, babe. I’ll take you home.”

Amy grabbed her son’s arm. “No, Jack. I don’t want you driving both ways this late. She can stay here . . . in the guest room, of course.”

“I don’t want to stay here.” Lisbeth’s tears started again.

“God, you have been crying all night. Aren’t you sick of crying?” Amy looked around the room, shocked to discover she’d spoken aloud.

“Mom . . .” Jack exhaled, flashed his mother a furrowed-brow look of disgust. Newly manufactured tears poured down Lisbeth’s cheeks.