At the same time, he conceded that the interest was understandable. There was something wildly attractive about Natalie Harper. It had to do with the fact that she was the absolute opposite of needy, holding herself at a distance, her defenses drawn around her like a wall.

There was a man in the mirror over Andrew’s bathroom sink, and for a moment, he lost his place in time. He felt as if he were looking at a stranger. More and more lately, his thoughts slipped into confusion and sometimes he couldn’t find his way back.

Too often, it was hard to tell the difference between what was real and what his mind fabricated. In these moments, he had to close his eyes and breathe until he recognized himself again. He did that now, and felt a welling of gratitude when he opened his eyes and recognized the image looking back at him.

He had dressed carefully for the meeting with the Larrabee family. Pressed pants and a crisp white shirt, just the way May would have wanted. For as long as he could remember, her family laundry had taken care of his clothing. She used to do the pickup and delivery herself, back when she was ensnared in the arranged marriage she’d borne like the heavy canvas bags she transported to and from the laundry.

She would arrive and greet him with downcast eyes, but inevitably their gazes would meet, and the yearning that had bound them as youngsters would briefly flare, then subside into calm acceptance. They hadn’t allowed themselves to hope that one day the world would allow them to show their love for each other. That day had come in the twilight of their lives, when her elderly husband had died and she had fiercely claimed her independence. She’d brought the laundry as usual on a Monday, only instead of the drawn and downcast mien, she had looked him in the eye and declared that she was free. The business was sold and within weeks, she’d come to live with him and Blythe and little Natalie in the cozy upstairs apartment.

They spoke of marriage sometimes, but he had never actually divorced Lavinia. He could have pursued a legal proceeding, yet it didn’t seem necessary. She and her lover were longtime residents of Chateau Marmont in Los Angeles, which he knew because every once in a while, Blythe received a postcard.

“She’s a stranger,” Blythe used to say, tossing the card in the trash. “I don’t know why she bothers.”

But the absence of a mother had left its mark. During her childhood, Blythe had moved through confusion and hurt, then fury and, ultimately, dismissiveness.