Ann decided not to tell Maureen about what had happened to her parents. Any sympathy could derail Ann’s efforts, and her emotions were still so raw, who knew if she could keep from breaking down. “They sure do.”

“That’s a real Cape Cod house. So much character. I’ll bet they’d sooner die than sell it.”

Ann shook her head again and choked back the sob in her throat. “That’s true.”

“What can I say? Our place was built during a bad time for architecture. We hardly go there anymore. We’ve tried to sell it off and on for years to no avail. Nobody wants a house like that anymore. Thirty-some years old and already it’s dated. Your house, it’s timeless.”

The sound of water flushing through the pipes from the upstairs bathroom practically coursed through Ann.

“I should go,” she said. She wasn’t ready for an encounter with Anthony—then again, she’d never be ready for him, never.

“Oh, stay! You just arrived! I can make some egg salad. I want to hear about what brings you to Marblehead and catch up!”

The footsteps were on the stairs now. Slow, one step at a time. Ann’s stomach churned. That night on Duck Pond came back to her in little snapshots. Anthony’s calves, his wet hair, the moles on his back, his grunts, her protests. Her painted toenails. How many times had she blamed those painted toenails for everything that happened?

“Don’t let him scare you. He’s not accustomed to visitors anymore, I’m afraid, all cooped up in this house.”

“Who’s here?” Anthony’s voice was unmistakable. It brought out a feeling of sheer contempt. Her veins felt like they were filled with fire.

“Tony, you’ll never believe!”

Ann gripped her beer bottle in her hand so tight she might have been able to shatter it. She looked for the door. If she ran fast she could make a quick exit—

Anthony appeared in the doorway. He wore a V-neck undershirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants, barely the Anthony she remembered. His belly hung over his waistband, and his hair, what was left of it, was a wiry mess. He had dark bags like black pincushions under his eyes. It was hard for Ann to imagine she’d ever been attracted to him, hard to think he’d ever had power, harder still for Ann to imagine what it must have been like for Maureen to live with him in this condition.

“Look! Why it’s Ann, honey.”

“I have eyes.”