As soon as the words leave his mouth, Ed realizes what he has said. He waits to see Alice’s reaction. Mommy. The m word. It’s what he called her from the moment they knew that Stacy was coming to the day she died. He hasn’t called Alice “Mommy” in seven years, and yet the word came so fluidly to his mouth just now because she has been mommying this dog. He waits, horrified that he may have broken the spell of this better day with an unconscious blunder.

The dog trots to Alice, sits in front of her, herd-dog eyes catching and holding hers. Alice bends slowly from the waist. A strand of hair slides out from under her clip, dangling. She neither praises the dog nor gives him the treat he so clearly expects.

Buddy wiggles. His tail sweeps the pine needles. A soft inquiring woof. Please?

Alice holds the last piece of bacon in the tips of her fingers. Buddy takes it gently, his eyes fixed on hers, promising something. Straightening up, Alice looks at her husband. “Tell Daddy it’s time for a walk.”

Chapter 47

47

Everyone is out of the house by five o’clock. Even Paul and his family have gone home. Those who have come back to Adele’s house after the service have drifted away, final condolences distributed to Adele, who sits in her living room, taking those sentiments with a royal dignity. I think she looks like she rehearsed for this role. Queen Adele. Or maybe duchess. Maybe only duchess. At any rate, I am left with the cleaning up. I sent Mitch to his hotel. No sense in him hanging around this group of complete strangers. I am meeting him for a drink as soon as I can get away. He’s brought his laptop, and I am beyond anxious to get started looking for Mack.

As I’m drying the last platter, adding it to the collection of dishes on the counter that will have to be returned to mystery owners, Adele comes into the kitchen. She stands there watching me, and I can feel her need to comment on how I’m doing the dishes, or where I’m stacking the orphans, or even that I’m making too much noise. She doesn’t. She sits in her usual kitchen chair, the one nearest the stove. She’s still dressed in her Lord & Taylor outfit, but she has on slippers instead of the good sensible shoes she’s worn all day. The slippers are threadbare, the pink terry-cloth faded to something like a washed-out bloodstain, the cloth separating from the foam sole at the edge. She sits and watches and stays silent until I am done with the dishes. I take a last swipe at the wet sink surround, squeeze out the Handi Wipe, and hang it over the faucet.

“Don’t leave it there.”