She closed her eyes and tried to think of Rivera, what she could say to John and what she should not, and how much worse it would be down the line when he found out the things she had been thinking but not sharing.

“What are you thinking?”

Angie imagined Caroline Rose getting up in front of Ogilvie’s entire Catholic population to announce the wedding was off because she was moving to New Jersey to live in sin with a woman. It was such an absurd idea that she hiccupped a short laugh. And, of course, she couldn’t say who Caroline loved with any certainty. “That I’d rather not be there tomorrow when Caroline makes her big announcement. Whatever it is.”

“Can’t you leave the videotaping to Rivera and Tony?”

“Do we need to be there at all?” Angie asked.

He said, “I’ll ask Caroline about that after supper, and then I’ll call you later. Can you wait up to hear from me?”

Angie said, “I doubt I’ll have much choice about it.”

You will not believe this,” Tony said when Angie got back to Ivy House a little past five. “I still don’t believe it, and I’m looking at it.”

He and Rivera were sitting at the kitchen table. Between them a manuscript, its pages slightly yellowed around the edges, typewritten rather than computer generated.

“What is that?”

Rivera put her hands flat on the table and bowed her head as if she were praying. “When we got to Magnolia House, we sat down with Miss Maddie and had some lemonade,” she said. “And so I asked her about Abe and Anabel Spate.”

“And?” Angie said, impatiently. “Come on, you mopes. It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s that good,” said Tony. “As soon as the question was out of Rivera’s mouth, Miss Maddie got up and took this out of a desk drawer and handed it to her.” He put his hand on the manuscript.

Apparently Maddie and Zula had been waiting for the question of Abe to come up ever since Tied to the Tracks first came to Ogilvie. According to Tony, Miss Maddie looked almost relieved.

“It’s Miss Maddie’s autobiography. Written in 1980, never submitted, never published.” Rivera picked up the manuscript and came across the kitchen to put it in Angie’s hands. She promptly slid to the floor, where she sat, her back against the wall.

“According to Miss Maddie, we can use whatever parts of it we see fit. As narration, if that seems right.”

“What will Miss Zula have to say about that?” Angie asked. It was a moot question, in some ways; the only question, in others.

“Miss Zula knows about the autobiography.”

“That it exists, or that we have it?”

“Both.” Rivera’s voice cracked.

“So what’s in it?” Angie’s voice sounded thin and far away, but that was because her heart was beating so hard.