“Because even if it shows the plaque, even if it’s there, there’s nothing to be done about it. There aren’t any medicines or treatments . . .”

“Plaque?”

“From what little I understand, that’s what Alzheimer’s is essentially—plaque and tangles in your brain cells. It’s more complicated than that, but that’s above my pay grade.”

“Oh, God. Yes, of course I’ll help pay. Yes.” Tears gathered and Colleen pressed her palms to her eyes. “This is so scary.”

Shane nodded and she knew he didn’t trust his voice, what it would sound like with fear and grief mingled. Together they climbed out of the car and Colleen stood in the parking lot of the Lark as waves of emotion—joy, melancholy, regret and something that felt vaguely like peace—swept over her until she remembered her sister. “When does Hallie arrive?” she asked quietly.

“She’s probably inside waiting,” Shane said. “Let’s go, sis.”

“Give me a minute.”

“I’ve given you years.”

Chapter Five

Memory is never a precise duplicate of the original . . . it is a continuing act of creation.

Rosalind Cartwright, The Twenty-four Hour Mind

The Lark was housed in an eighty-year-old brick and tabby building that had always been a pub, as far as Colleen knew, although it had once been known by another name and owned by another family. Her dad had baptized it the Lark some thirty-five years ago, after his favorite Irish poem and song. He and Mother had just married when they bought the place and Colleen was only a twinkle in their eyes.

Colleen ambled slowly around to the front of the building, wanting to see its face before entering; Shane followed.

The name was writ large in a golden Celtic font across an emerald-green frieze above the pub door. The single front door was arched and painted a bright red with dark green trim. The slate roof sloped with a single chimney pot poking up like a submarine tower from a sea of dark shingles. A brass knocker forged into the Claddagh design—two hands surrounding a heart—hung in the middle of the door. It was a home to many and definitely to the Donohue family. The Lark’s facade was as familiar to Colleen as the smile of her dad’s face.

“It never changes,” she said to Shane and leaned against his shoulder.

“I hope it never will. It feels like the only stable thing right now.”

Colleen kissed her brother’s cheek. “We’ll get through this. He’s here with us. That’s what matters most.”

Shane gave her that look, the one that let her know he didn’t agree but wasn’t going to fight with his big sister. Colleen pulled out her ponytail, feeling her hair come loose around her face. “And the hair puff begins,” she said. “Welcome to South Carolina and a hundred percent humidity.”