He pulls free from me. “Shit. That’s my mom.” Adjusting the towel around his waist, he goes over and answers it. From the one-sided conversation, I gather that she saw him arrive with me and is asking who he’s with and why he didn’t bring me into the cottage. He tells her my name and reminds her who I am and then says we’ll be in to see her in a minute. He’s about to hang up but stops and listens to whatever she’s saying. “Yes,” he says patiently. “Avril Island Bennett. The youngest daughter.”

He hangs up the phone and shoots me an apologetic look. “I told her four days ago that you were back, and she seemed so lucid about it.” He looks pained. “It’s just hard to know which version of her you’re going to get from day to day.”

“I can imagine,” I say with sympathy. “Why don’t we just put a pin in that.” I point to his bed. “And I’ll let you get dressed.”

When he comes out of the bedroom, he finds me standing in front of the photos on the wall. “These are May’s, aren’t they?” It comes out sounding accusatory, even though I didn’t mean it to.

“My god,” he says, stopping short. “I should have warned you.”

I wave my hand in an exaggerated way. “It’s fine, really. I’m fine.” My voice sounds too high, and I wonder if he knows how I really feel underneath it. “But I’m just wondering where you got them. And the feet—are they yours? And am I the one in the tree?”

He comes to stand beside me. “Those are my feet, and yes, that’s you in the tree, and that’s us in the forest beyond the clothesline.” He looks at the pictures fondly. “Your sister gave them to me. After that time in town when we saw each other but didn’t talk. She sent them home the next day with my dad in an envelope and a note saying what each one was and that she thought I might like them. It was like she knew our friendship was pretty much finished and that I might want some memento of it.”

I swallow down a thick lump of tears. That was exactly like May. Going around after me to try to make up for the damage I’d done. She was as much a support to Leo through our divorce as she was to me.

“I loved them so much, I had them blown up and framed,” he continues. “I hope that’s okay with you?”

“They’d be worth a lot, you know,” I say proudly. “She was pretty famous before she died.”

“I know,” he says, matter-of-fact. “But they’re worth far more to me hanging on that wall than selling them to the highest bidder.”