Rebecca was on her way upstairs to change her clothes when her eyes snagged on a photo on a shelf in the living room: the four of them, Peter, Rebecca, Morgan, and Alexa, on the Spanish Steps in Rome a little over two years ago—the April vacation before Peter died. Rebecca paused and picked up the photo. She probably passed by it a hundred times a day, but it now seemed important to study it. Peter had his arm around Rebecca and Alexa was positioned between them and a little bit to the front, with Morgan just to Alexa’s left. Morgan and Alexa looked so young! They all looked young. Rebecca studied Peter’s head. Was the aneurysm already in there, waiting to rupture? She tried to read his expression. He couldn’t have known what was coming. Could he? What if he had? What if he’d known, and he hadn’t told her?

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said. Sorry that what? Sorry that he was dead and she was alive? Sorry that she was thinking of ways to while away a summer day with another man? Sorry that some days she couldn’t stop crying but other days she forgot to cry at all?

She looked more closely at Peter’s face. No, he couldn’t have known what was coming. He just looked healthy and happy and full of gelato.

38.

Alexa

The morning of the Canobie Lake trip Alexa shot her Silk Stockings video early so they could get to the park when it opened, before the summer crowds swarmed. Once she had looked over and posted the video—hard assets, it wasn’t her best, but it would do, considering the time crunch—she changed into cutoff shorts, a strappy tank top, and a pair of Vans and knocked on Morgan’s bedroom door. No answer. Was she still sleeping?

The knowledge of Sherri and Katie’s secret past was acting like a caffeine hit to Alexa—she was buzzing with the knowledge of it.

“Morgan!” she called through the door, irritated. “Come on, we’re going to be late!”

Why can’t you be nicer, Alexa? Like you used to be.

But. “Down here!” came Morgan’s voice. Alexa found Morgan in the kitchen, already having eaten breakfast and applied sunscreen to her face, ears, and arms, even rubbing most of it in. Morgan was practically quivering with anticipation, and Alexa’s heart softened.

“Sorry,” said Alexa. “I thought you wouldn’t be ready.” Alexa ate her own breakfast—a Chobani yogurt sprinkled liberally with cinnamon—and repaired to her room to brush her teeth.