After lunch, they followed the bluff path through the long seaside park north of Laguna’s main beach, pausing at each viewpoint to watch the waves spill across the tortoiseshell rocks below.

Pelicans glided on air currents without an exertion of wings, dolphins arced in and out of the water, sandpipers strutted along the shore, plein air painters strove to make canvas as luminous as the reality before them, and with Maddison at his side, David felt more a part of the vibrant life of the world than at any time in years.

As they shared the day, he kept thinking about the dozen calla lilies tied with blue ribbon and left in the vase sleeve in the gravestone that as yet was not carved with names.

He didn’t want to challenge her, to risk any breach in whatever bond was forming between them. There might be an explanation for the deceptions with which Isaac Eisenstein had charged her, a credible reason that would in the end exonerate her of any ill intent. Good people sometimes told lies out of desperate necessity. Whatever the truth of her, he felt that he owed her the benefit of the doubt. She was too like Emily to harbor true darkness in her heart. Emily had been woven through with light. Maddison might be in a jam, deep in debt to someone—or afraid of someone—who had power over her, but nonetheless as innocent as Emily.

Even as he made excuses for her, David understood his own bent psychology. Ten years earlier, in part by his own fault, he had lost one life as it was meant to be, the one life he most wanted; and now by virtue of this woman’s remarkable resemblance to Emily, it seemed as if that ruined life could be restored, the past undone, the lost future regained. He was not enchanted by her looks alone. Her voice, too, was akin to Emily Carlino’s, her mannerisms, her sharp wit, her intelligence. Her kiss. She had kissed him only once, outside the restaurant as they waited for the valet to bring her car. She’d put a hand to the back of his head and drawn his face down to hers, as Emily had done from time to time; her kiss was eerily familiar, deep yet discreet, as if she were taking a taste of some delicacy far too fine for this world.

By the time they reached the north end of the park and were returning along the bluff, holding hands, he broached the subject without mentioning the cemetery. Referring to the grave would be tantamount to asking her if she were researching and stalking him. Therefore, he said simply, “Someone, I don’t know who, left flowers for me yesterday.”

Neither by the pressure with which her hand gripped his nor by any other tell did she reveal a recognition that his statement was a subtle interrogation. “Didn’t they come with a card?”