ROBERT TOOK HOLD OF Genevieve’s hand on the way back. They were the last to leave the family mausoleum, and everybody else had already gotten into their vehicles or wandered away on foot to the house. She hadn’t wanted to travel in the Daimler with the rest of the family, and he could understand that. He was touched, really, that she wanted to be with him and him alone.

Her hand was tiny and cold, her eyes empty. He wanted to gather her to his chest, squeeze her hard. But he sensed that she wouldn’t want him to, and he respected that. There are times when a person needs room to breathe, to remember, to grieve. If only he could find the right words to comfort her.

“My darling,” he tried, as they passed along the gravel path, between insignificant gravestones, ornate marble crucifixes, statues of angels; walking under the shade of silver birches and horse chestnut trees, and on toward a huge oak. “I remember, when Daddy died, getting this feeling like someone snatched the ground from under my feet. I couldn’t see how any of us would survive without him. He was so big in every way. His intellect, his character. He had such stature. But we carried on, Genevieve. I don’t suppose I will ever fill his shoes, but I did the best I could. We all did—Mama and my sister and—”

But Genevieve pulled her hand away and went darting across to the oak tree. He watched, confused, as she searched over the trunk for something, and then, seemingly having found whatever it was, stood quietly, running her fingers over the bark.

“What is it, honey?”

She made no reply. Just kept on looking at the tree trunk. Stroking it.

At length he cleared his throat. “Hadn’t we better be getting along to the house? They’ll be wondering where we are.”

“Let them wonder.”

The sunlight was darting in fierce shafts between the branches, through the leaves. Robert, hot in his heavy black suit, loosened his collar. “It doesn’t seem right that it should be such a beautiful day, does it? The sky should be weeping right along with us. Of course, it was a real scorcher on the day we buried my daddy. Well, it—”

“Would you just shut up for one minute? Would you?” A sound came up from her throat, like an engine that wouldn’t start. And he knew, as she turned and ran away down the path toward their car, that she was crying. At last. She had not cried when they’d told her the news. She had not cried during the service or at the graveside. And she should cry. It was only natural. It would do her good.

He took a moment to examine the oak tree before following. There was something scratched into the bark—one word—a name: Josephine. That was all.