He laughs, and it sounds nice. It’s quiet, not full, but a laugh nonetheless. “That’s because I’m not doing the work. You know, one funny thing we realized is that this place has a basement.”

“Really?”

“Well, more of a crawl space, really. When we discovered it, we dug it out, made a proper basement.”

“Wouldn’t it flood, being so close to the lake?”

“It did,” he admits. “It does. There’s nothing down there now except a few empty shelves and, occasionally, some standing water that my guy has to pump out.”

It doesn’t surprise me that Tom has a “guy.” I glance around the place, again taking in the simple class of the décor, plain and yet somehow perfect. There is a bookshelf against the wall that separates the main living area from a small entryway, and the books are lined up like little soldiers. I walk over and run my fingers along the titles, most of which are classics.

“Nice collection,” I remark.

“Shirley’s,” he says, and that one word, her name, is filled with longing. It’s the most emotion he’s shown yet, and it gives me hope that the old Tom is still in there somewhere.

“She always did enjoy a good story.”

On one of the shelves, completely out of place, sits one of those Russian nesting dolls, the kind that you can break in half to find a smaller doll inside, and another, and so on. I reach up and take it from the shelf. It’s so bright, painted with reds and oranges and greens, that it seems almost garish there among the beiges and grays and pastel blues.

“Another one of Shirley’s favorites,” Tom says, but his voice is flat again. So flat that I look over at him to see if there’s a problem. He gives me a tight smile and almost imperceptibly glances at the doll.

I look at it again, spinning the top half around without removing it. “Where did she get this?”

“She liked to travel,” Tom says, and again I think his voice seems strained.

Maybe it brings back memories of Shirley, I think, placing the doll back on the shelf. “I’m sorry,” I say, but I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for—Shirley’s death? Handling something that has personal meaning? Simply being there?

Tom shakes his head. “It’s okay.”

“I love it here,” Pearl says.

We both spot her standing by the bannister, and I have this vision of her, that she’s a bird getting ready to fly away. It feels like Tom and I stand there for a long time looking up at her, not saying anything.

She smiles down at us. “I love it here,” she says again.

“We lived here for almost two whole summers,” I say to her, but I’m also saying it to Tom, reminding him for some reason, as if he might have forgotten. “Tom, Shirley, your grandmother, and me.”

“Really?”

“Really. It was . . . We had a great time.”

“A million years ago,” Tom reflects.