All I know for sure is that I miss what Alan and I had—the laughter and love and constant support. That’s what I want to remember. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days drowning in venom when I think of him.

Zack kneels beside me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. He doesn’t say a word. He just sits and holds me.

I realize that I still want to shield my son from this sordidness. I don’t want him to suffer what I’ve had to suffer, to doubt his father’s love for him or for us. That’s the one thing he can still cling to.

I firmly decide that I won’t tell Zack. I’ll never tell him. I’ll continue to shoulder this burden alone. I’m certain now that it’s been the right decision all along. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to take Alan’s infidelity to my own grave.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

On Monday morning, I drive Zack to the airport, and it’s harder than I imagined to say goodbye. I hug him outside the entrance to security, and I miss him as soon as I turn away.

When I return to Lunenburg, Mom has lunch prepared. We sit down at the kitchen table, but we don’t talk about Zack or sad things. We make light conversation and speculate about the weather over the next few days.

When we’ve almost finished lunch, she leans back in her chair. “You know . . . I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other night, after you came home from your date with Nathan.”

I reach for my water and take a sip. “Oh?”

“I’d still love to go to Venice. I’d love to travel more, maybe even go south for a few months in the winter, but you know what holds me back?”

“What?”

“This house.” She looks around. “All my money’s tied up in it, and it’s a big responsibility. There’s so much to maintain. Either the driveway needs to be shoveled, or the lawn needs to be mowed, and my garden needs tending. I don’t ever feel like I can leave it for more than a week or two. But I’ve been hanging on to it because it was my home with your father, and this is where all our memories were. Also because it’s your childhood home, and I always wanted you to feel that if something terrible happened in your life, you’d always have a place to come home to.”

I chuckle softly. “Was that a premonition, do you think?”

“Who knows.” She rises from her chair, collects our empty plates, and carries them to the counter. After she sets them down, she faces me. “But here’s the thing. My memories of your father aren’t in this house. They’re in here.” She taps her temple with her index finger. “And here.” She makes a fist over her heart. “So maybe it’s time I lived a little. If I downsized to a condo in a retirement village, I’d have more freedom financially, and I could meet some new people, make new friends who might turn out to be travel companions. Freedom from taking care of this big house would be nice, I think.”

I look at her and smile, because I love the idea of my mother embarking on a new adventure at her age.

I rise to my feet and cross the kitchen to pull her in for a hug. “I think that’s a great idea, Mom. And I would love to help you. As soon as you’re ready, we can get busy decluttering the house and figuring out what we need to do to get the best possible price for it, so you can live your dreams with that money.”

Her cheeks flush red, and her eyes twinkle. “Really? I was so afraid you’d be upset. Because this is your home too.”

My eyebrows fly up. “Of course I’m not upset! I want you to be happy. And I agree—this house is a heavy load. You shouldn’t be carrying it all on your own. You did your bit. It’s time for you to kick up your heels.”

She hugs me even tighter. “Okay. Let’s do it then.”

We tidy the kitchen together, but I feel tired afterward and retreat to my bedroom for a power nap, because if I’ve learned anything over the past year, it’s that sleep is a great rejuvenator. As are dreams. We always get a fresh start when we escape for a short time. Then we wake up, ready to move again—and clearly there’s going to be a lot to do around here, so I’m going to need all the energy I can get.

I come around to the sensation of Winston’s wet tongue on my eyelids, and I lean up on an elbow on the bed.

“Good boy,” I say as I stroke his thick fur and glance at the clock. He’s become very good at judging how much time has elapsed and waking me about thirty minutes after I lie down. I never trained him for this, so I can only presume it’s instinct or intuition. Somehow, he knows what I need, and he keeps me on track.

My laptop chimes with an incoming email, and I wonder if it’s work related. Dragging myself off the bed, I sit down at the desk and open my email program.

The subject line on the newest message says, in all caps, CAN WE MEET?

My belly does a sickening flip because the sender of this message is Paula—the last person in the world I want to hear from.

She hasn’t contacted me since our conversation at Alan’s apartment last year, so I wonder what this is about. My heart starts to race, and my blood boils with that familiar anger I’ve been trying so hard to purge from my life lately.

I click on the message.

Hi Abbie. I’ve been thinking of you. Holidays are rough.

I suspect you’re not thrilled to hear from me, but please consider meeting me to talk. There’s something I would like to tell you. Let me know when you’re available.

Paula

I sit back in my chair and stare at the computer screen. “Let me know when you’re available”? Isn’t it a bit presumptuous to assume I’ll say yes? Because I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of sitting down and chatting with the woman who was sleeping with my husband for three years. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.

Winston lays his snout on my thigh and peers up at me. He blinks a few times. His golden brow furrows.

I don’t know what it is about this dog, but sometimes I believe he can see into my soul. Today, he looks at me with sorrow because he recognizes the jealousy and bitterness I still feel toward this woman.

Or is it pity that I see in his eyes?

I gaze out the window at the gentle breeze in the treetops and realize that if I’m ever going to be truly happy, I need to focus on a far bigger picture.

I think of my son. I remember him as a baby in my arms—the sweet smell of his soft head beneath my lips when I kissed him good night before setting him down in his crib. I think of him as a young boy scoring the winning goal in a hockey game and raising his stick over his head with triumph. I think of how frightened Alan and I were when he was fourteen and fell off his skateboard and was rushed to the ER. But he was okay in the end.

I think about what a good man Zack has become.

Then I think about my walks along the seashore with Nathan, the girls, and our dogs, running and frolicking on the beach while we search for rocks with fossils in them. I can almost hear the sound of the ocean waves breaking onto the rocky beach, mixed with the girls’ laughter.

I love being with Nathan and his daughters. I also love being with my mom. I love our Sunday dinners and my mother’s kindness and wit. Her cooking. Her love, ever since the day I was born.

We live in a beautiful world.

I’m thankful for my life.

I give Winston a pat, lean down to kiss him tenderly on the head, and begin to type my reply to Paula.

As I get out of my car on the main street in town, I hope I’m doing the right thing. Maybe it would have been better to meet Paula in a private location rather than a public coffee shop, because I certainly don’t want to cause a scene. Not that I plan to fall apart or get into a screaming match—I would never lose control like that, not now—but it’s hard to know what she plans to say or do.

Yet here I am, sitting down at a table at Tim Hortons, waiting for her to arrive.

The door opens, and she walks in out of a strong wind that blows dead leaves in the street.

I forgot how beautiful she is—with long, flowing blonde hair and giant blue eyes. That alone causes heads to turn. Today, she’s dressed in an ivory fisherman’s sweater, faded jeans, and sneakers.

Our eyes meet, and she approaches my table. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I reply coolly.

We stare at each other. I have no idea what to say. I don’t even know why I’m here. I hope she doesn’t think there’s a chance we might bury the hatchet and become friends, because as much as I want to put my anger to bed forever, I’m quite certain the only way I can do that is to leave all this behind and stop wrestling with it.

At least this isn’t a dive bar, and she’s not passed out after guzzling multiple glasses of wine.

She tells me she’s going to get a coffee. Then she approaches the counter. I sit there, tapping my finger on the table, waiting.

A moment later, she returns and sits down. “Thanks for coming.”

“I couldn’t very well say no,” I reply with a hint of antagonism I’m not proud of, because I hate being rude, and Lord knows I’m trying to rise above all this. “The suspense was killing me.”

Paula peels the brown plastic lid off her coffee cup to let the steam escape. “Sorry. I just thought we should meet in person.”

“Why?” But I believe I already know the answer. I’m guessing she’s had time over the past year to reflect upon the choices she’s made, and she wants to apologize for the pain she caused me and ask for my forgiveness.

If that’s the case, I’m just going to give it to her, because I’ve already decided that the time has come to move on.

So here we are. I’m staring at the light at the end of the tunnel. I want to reach for it. I suspect Paula wants to reach for it too.

But she doesn’t apologize for anything, nor does she ask my forgiveness. She reaches into her purse, withdraws a photograph, lays it on the table, and slides it toward me.

I gaze down at it and feel a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. Why is she showing me this? Has she not trespassed enough? And how did she come upon it?