Even here his father followed him.

No, that wasn’t right. The book had been here; Anthony had only just arrived. Revise that, Anthony. Delete. Rewrite. Once again, he had followed his father.

Twenty-seven Corn Neck Road was a weather-beaten little cottage with a long seashell driveway and, as promised by Fitzy, a large flat rock beside the front porch with a key hidden underneath. From the outside, it could have been any year. On the inside, time had stopped in the early 1900s. Lace, brocade, straight-backed chairs, heavy dark furniture matched only by the heavy dark rugs that lay under them. In the kitchen (small) it was closer to 1942, with ancient silver pulls on the drawers, a laminate countertop in pale green. The stove bore the word Hotpoint across it. He had never heard of such a brand. The door to the refrigerator closed completely only when Anthony pushed against it with all of his weight. No matter: there was no food to keep fresh in it, and only a half-empty ice tray in the freezer.

Or was it half full? This was a joke that at one time he might have made to himself, or even out loud. But he no longer felt like joking.

On the kitchen table, which was small and wooden, with four wooden chairs, as if the three bears had put out an extra for a guest, was a note from Fitzy’s uncle.

HOUSE RULES, it said.

1. Garbage day is Thursday.
2. No pets.
3. No parties.

“That’s it?” Anthony said out loud. He thought he could probably handle three rules.

On a sideboard in the living room sat a crystal decanter flanked by two glasses. Whether this was decoration or invitation he couldn’t be certain, but it lent a certain sense of propriety to the place, like he’d just wandered into Downton Abbey. There was an amber liquid in the decanter. Brandy. Or sherry. The lonely man had to stop himself from tipping the whole thing into his mouth, gulping it down like lemonade.

What a boring story this would make.

He turned from the decanter and into one of the two bedrooms, which contained a four-poster bed whose posts looked sharp enough for him to impale himself on. (Not out of the question.) In his former life, he and Cassie reposed on an upholstered Avery bed from Room and Board on Newbury Street in Boston, chosen, of course, by Cassie. Paid for by Anthony.

Anthony tried not to think of how his wife might now be reposing on the Avery bed—or, more accurately, with whom. The thought that his despicable actions had brewed marital discontent was terrible to consider, but even more terrible was the possibility that the marital discontent had existed long before, like a chapter outline to a book that was yet to be written.

Oh, Anthony, stop it. What an obvious metaphor. You never used to be so obvious.

He wondered what Max was doing right then, right that very minute, and whether he’d been offered a reasonable explanation for his father’s absence. But thinking about Max hurt too much, so he rolled up the thoughts like a sleeping bag, tucked them into their matching carrying pouch, and placed them tenderly in a corner of his mind, to be taken out later.