Maureen’s warmth startled Ann. She put her hands on Ann’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “What on earth brings you to this neck of the woods? I’ve wondered about you all these years, how many, ten? No, twelve? Fourteen? Good Lord, my whole life is a blur. How are your wonderful parents? Did you know I used to send them notes? I was so embarrassed when you quit, all because I’d had too much to drink. I was positively mortified!”

Ann, trying hard to stay focused, stiffly leaned into Maureen’s hug. Already she was overwhelmed. Her parents never told her about Maureen’s notes. Anthony said she’d quit because Maureen had been drunk? It wasn’t bad enough to do what he did; he had to embarrass his wife, too.

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d—”

“Tell me, how is Michael?”

Michael’s name had been off-limits for so long that it sounded forbidden. “We’ve lost touch.”

“But you were so close. I don’t understand. He was so dear, and the hardest worker I’d ever met. He’d finish the day covered from head to toe in dirt.”

“We’re estranged now.” Ann’s voice was clipped. She didn’t want to invite any more questions.

“I’m sorry to hear that, I really am. I found him, and you, remarkable. Although if you want to know, he never paid us back the money we’d loaned him for college. That’s always surprised me.”

This was new. “You loaned him money for college?”

“Well, Anthony did. Anthony has always been one for large gestures. He saw a bit of himself in Michael. Wanted to help him out.”

So, Ann thought. Another story. “I’m not surprised he never repaid you,” she said.

“Funny we should speak of Michael. Just this morning I was rehearsing a monologue for Duchess of Padua.” She put her hand to her chest and looked off into an imaginary audience. “Here’s how it goes: ‘I read love’s meaning, everything you said touched my dumb soul to music, and you seemed fair as that young Saint Michael on the wall in Santa Croce, where we go and pray.…’ Saint Michael indeed! Let me get you something to drink. Come in, come in.”

Ann followed Maureen inside the home, so classic and elegant compared to their house in Wellfleet. The living room was stuffed with deep, masculine leather chairs, a fat couch, and antique side tables. Yet the cashmere throw was left in a heap on the hardwood floor, the bouquet had gone limp in the vase, and dead blossoms littered the coffee table, along with piles of mail and take-out containers. Maureen said, “As you can see, this place isn’t fit for company.”

“You weren’t expecting me, it’s fine.”