“That is a disgusting question. Galen is . . . Galen is a wonderful man.”

She then told me about a wonderful man who spent most of his daughter’s life at sea. Who burst into the house at odd hours, rum on his breath and brine in his clothes and roaring laughter in his chest, and gave his wife and daughter unwanted, crushing hugs. Who was three times mistakenly reported dead and never considered the fright this caused his family. Who humiliated his employees, ignored his daughter, and treated the wife he once doted on with the affection one might give a dishrag. Who built a modest shipping fortune but refused to relinquish control until the business withered to nothing. Whose family begged him to spend more time at home, but who preferred to go on doing wonderful things in a wonderful way and not giving a thought to how it might hurt those who loved him.

Fathers. Aren’t they marvelous?

For the last year, their daughter, Juliette, had run the shipping firm. Business was good. Galen had no friends, no hobbies. When he wasn’t taking long walks, he was in his office, staring at the river, chewing plug after plug of tobacco, spitting until the floor around the spittoon was stained black. At night he read, drinking rum until drowsiness overtook him, and he fell asleep in the chair.

Wonderful.

It was an ordinary picture of a man in decline. Mrs. Copeland had resigned herself to watching him slip away, a little piece every day, and though that thought terrified her, it was the sort of numb terror that is dangerously easy to ignore. But then he gave her the gloves, and that day, his eyes shone for the first time in years.

“I’d hoped it was a new beginning,” she said. “I worry I’ve spoiled it.”

“Do you know where he bought them?”

“No. And there’s no way to ask without encouraging suspicion.”

“Never mind that. I’ll find your glove, and if that proves impossible, I’ll find a replacement.”

At that, she smiled, and it was like a beam of light sweeping across a field on a gray day. I reached for another lemon square, but we had eaten the plate bare. Even the bag of caramels was empty. This explained the pain in my stomach. I hauled myself up, trying not to show the effort, and was reaching for the doorknob when the door swung open and nearly caught me in the face. On the other side was a slender woman, just past thirty, with gently curled hair, a crooked smile, and eyes the color of silt.

“What are you doing in my house?” she said.

“I’m Gilda Carr. I’m here on business.”

“What sort?”

“Personal, and urgent. You must be Juliette Copeland.”