Husbands & Lovers

Chapter Twenty-Four Monk

September 2022

Mystic, Connecticut

The house is larger than he expected. In his head—in his fears—she’s been bringing up Sam in some kind of run-down rural shack with a single, frayed Depression-era power line running in from a battered pole on the edge of a dirt road roamed by feral dogs.

As usual, he’s an idiot when it comes to Mallory.

He turns Bessie into the neat-edged gravel driveway, shifts her into park, and shuts off the engine. A clapboard New England farmhouse sits before him, painted pale yellow with dark green shutters, window boxes overflowing with late-summer blooms. There is a porch with a pair of sky-blue Adirondack chairs and a small wooden table between them for your coffee or beer or lemonade. Looks about an acre or two. Plenty of room for a boy to roam, climbing trees and kicking a ball around, catch some fireflies on a June evening.

He grips the steering wheel and thinks, Don’t fuck this up, Adams.

Don’t. Fuck. This. Up.

He grabs the flowers and laptop bag and climbs out of the car. As he approaches the porch steps, a voice calls out behind him, “You’re early.”

He swings around. The old familiar punch to the gut, the longing that shuts off his breath for a second. She’s wearing faded jeans and a sleeveless shirt, rubber gardening clogs and an apron and a straw hat over her wild dark hair, knotted up behind her head. A trowel hangs from one hand. A smudge of dirt along one cheekbone just about begs for his thumb.

“Hey,” he says. “The drive took less time than I thought. I like your place.”

She gestures with the trowel. “I was just finishing up in the garden. Are those for me?”

He holds up the flowers like he’s never seen them before. Idiot, he thinks. “Last of the summer from Aunt Barbara’s rose garden. Thought she’d want you to have them.”

Mallory’s face transforms into joy. “Oh! That’s—Monk, I’m so touched. I loved her so much. Thank you. Go make yourself comfortable out back and I’ll put these in water.”

She hurries past him to spring up the porch steps and disappear through the front door. He watches it close and sets off around the side of the house, through an open gate in a crumbling stone wall, to the most profuse garden he’s ever seen in his life. Containers everywhere, tumbling vines, rioting beds, flowers upon flowers, vegetables. Couple of pear trees beyond, fruit hanging ripe. There’s a pattern to all this, but he can’t quite grasp it. Against the house is a patio paved with old red bricks. He sets his laptop bag on the table and walks down the center path until he comes to a row of sunflowers. He imagines Sam as a young kid, playing here.

The air is warm and drowsy, drenched in September gold. The sun bakes his head. He’s shoved both hands in his pockets but he takes one out now to touch the perfect yellow petals of the sunflower.

You can do this, he thinks.

With his thumb and forefinger, he rubs the sunflower petal for good luck. He runs through his lines in his head, the things he must say. He rehearsed it all again in the shower this morning, during the drive down from Boston after his checkup. How he’ll start the conversation, the questions he should ask her, what she might say, what he should reply to this or that. He’s run through several versions of this conversation in his head, but they all end the same way.

Over the phone the other day, he told Mallory he needs to go over some legal documents with her before it’s time to pick up Sam from soccer practice and take him to Winthrop for the weekend. Discuss the visitation schedule for the fall, some ongoing security arrangements now that the world is officially aware of Sam’s existence (“we ask for respect and privacy as we heal physically and as a family,” like that would send the paps and the trolls back to their caves). This is all true. He wants to make additional provisions for Sam and for Mallory, to recognize Sam as his legal heir; he wants to make Mallory a shareholder and board member on the production company, as Sam’s trustee; he’s got some ideas about combining the Adams and Monk properties on Winthrop into a single compound and he wants her input. All of that. Plans for the future. Now that he has a future.

But everything depends on not fucking up this conversation first.

He spots a flash of movement between the sunflowers. Mallory’s quick step down the path.

“There you are,” she says. “I got you a beer.”

He takes the bottle from her hand. “Nice flowers. Is this where you get your inspiration?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, you idiot. Is this where you get your inspiration?

She smiles. “You know my stuff better than anyone, I guess. Should we sit?”

“Sure.”

Monk follows her back down the path to the patio table. She takes a chair in the shade. She pulls off her hat and her hair frizzes from its knot. The table is round and Monk sits in the chair next to hers, a quarter-hour away. He points himself in her direction and sips his beer. She smooths back her hair with one hand. He nods to the sketchbook lying on the table, next to his laptop bag.

“Drawing much lately?”

He loves the way the blush crawls along that satin skin of hers, her pale olive skin you want to feel under your lips to find out how warm it is, how it tastes.

“When I can,” she says.

“Can I see?”

“Right now?”

“Sure.”

She looks at him, at the sketchbook. “I guess so. It’s pretty raw, I warn you. I copy the best ones into my portfolio. This is like—Idon’t know, like you scribbling down a melody that comes into your head.”

She hands him the sketchbook. He takes his readers out of his chest pocket and flips the book open to a drawing of a pear, so beautifully shaped, so luscious and obviously ripe, the stem poised at an expectant angle at the top, like a question mark, that he wants to reach into the page and eat the juicy, sun-warmed flesh. Even though it’s in charcoal.

“Tell me something, Pinks.” He takes off the readers and looks up. “What do you want to do with this? I mean, in an ideal world, what does your work look like?”

She looks surprised. She takes a sip from her beer and looks to one side, at her garden. “In an ideal world? I guess I’d quit my freelancing contracts and start my own design house. Drawing on themes from nature, you know, the patterns in the natural world. Remember how we used to talk about that?”

“I remember.”

“Your father—” She falters and glances at Monk. He nods at her to continue. “Your father used to tell me that I should study fine art, that I was shunted into commercial art because I’m a woman, and I guess I only recently realized how fucked up that was. How it fucked up my perception of myself, like I was just doing second-rate art somehow, that commercial art was selling out. But to me…you know, I don’t want to see my drawings hanging on the wall of some museum. Some art gallery for people to stare at. I want to surround people with art. I want people to touch my designs, to sleep with them, to sit on them, to eat off them. That’s how art began, to make everyday things beautiful, to make meaning out of use. I don’t know where we got this idea that art should be worshipped. That artists should be worshipped. Do you know what I mean?”

“I get you,” he says.

“I’d rather be an artisan than an artist. Bring beauty and meaning and joy right into people’s lives. Their homes. And it took me a while to get there and kind of own it for myself, you know? But anyway, that’s what I would do. In an ideal world, of course.”

Monk looks at her finger tapping next to her beer bottle and thinks, Don’t fuck this up.

He raises his gaze to her face. Her green eyes that warm him. “How’s your sister doing, Pinks?”

“Paige? Oh, she’s fine. Doing much better. They’ve moved on to the boring part, the lawyer stuff. Custody and financial agreements and all that…” She trails off, blushing again. “She keeps herself busy with all this ancestry research. Tracking down what happened to our grandmother—you remember how we went to Ireland to look up the adoption records? She keeps finding out all this amazing stuff.”

He could sit here listening to her voice forever. “Like what?”

“Oh, gosh. So this guy Lucien Beck—that’s our grandfather—it turns out he was some kind of Israeli intelligence operative.”

“You mean like Mossad?”

“Exactly. And he was in Egypt after the war, gathering intelligence, and that’s where we think he met Hannah. Our grandmother. She was married to this British diplomat, and Paige thinks she was passing on info to this Mossad guy, Lucien Beck, because this bracelet”—Mallory holds up her arm, her graceful arm—“holds secret messages…. I’m sorry, I’m being as boring as Paige.”

“No, no. This is seriously cool. Your roots.”

“Anyway, it turns out there were these massive riots in downtown Cairo in January of 1952. The protesters ended up setting fire to hundreds of buildings. And the mother superior at the convent in Ireland said Hannah arrived about a month after that, with all these burns, right? So it fits. Paige’s theory is that she fell in love with this Mossad guy and got pregnant, and then something happened. They were caught up in the riots or something and Lucien died trying to save her. And her husband took her to Ireland to have the baby and give it up for adoption.”

“That’s just completely fucked up. I don’t understand how a man could do that.”

She’s been working the bracelet around her wrist. Now she looks up and meets his gaze, just for a second or two. Long enough that he forgets how to breathe.

She drops her gaze back down to the bracelet. “But apparently Lucien also had a sister, and the sister had kids. So Paige started getting these pings from new cousins. That’s how she found out about the Mossad thing. She’s trying to find out more about this guy, about what happened in Cairo. It’s like an obsession with her now. She wants to take the kids to Israel. She’s literally learning Hebrew on Duolingo, it’s crazy.”

“That’s how she copes, though. Isn’t it? Copes with all the shit.”

Mallory looks up, a little surprised. “Yes. That’s exactly how she copes.”

He’s relaxing a little now, thanks to the beer and the sound of Mallory’s voice, the hum of bees, the drunken perfume of the flowers. “What about your grandmother? Hannah, right?”

“This is the cool part.” Mallory leans forward, animated. “The mother superior in Ireland told us she was rescued by a woman in a car who arrived right after my grandparents adopted Mom, right? And it turns out Hannah was Hungarian. She returned to Hungary and got involved in the Hungarian independence movement. You know, behind the Iron Curtain, trying to kick out the Soviets? We’ve been finding all kinds of records. She ended up spending about a decade in prison, but she lived to see the last Soviet tanks roll out. She died in Budapest in 1992.”

“Are you serious? That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, our minds are pretty blown. Like, this was our grandmother. Kicking ass.”

“It makes sense. I mean, look at you. Her granddaughter. Following your own road. Standing up for what you believe in.”

Another blush. She lifts her hand and works the cobra bracelet on her wrist. Jiggles the rubber clog from the ends of her toes. “We spent our whole lives thinking we were one thing. Irish Catholic, Boston, working class. My grandfather, he worked in construction and ended up owning his own business, which is what put us through Nobles. So, the American dream, right? But it turns out we’re something else. A whole different story.”

“But you’re still the same person. I mean, do you feel any different?”

“Grateful. I feel grateful. I think every day about how we’re all here because of a series of little miracles we know nothing about. The miracles that brought me right here, sitting in this chair beside you. What they sacrificed so I could live.” She looks at him with gentle eyes. “What you sacrificed for Sam.”

Now, he thinks. Time to rip off the Band-Aid. Take one end and pull.

Just don’t fuck it up.

He sets the empty beer bottle on the table. “So, I guess I should tell you. I went to visit Paige about a week ago.”

“Oh?” Her voice goes up about an octave. “What did you talk about?”

“I needed to ask her about something. Been kind of bothering me since I got out of the hospital. I had this memory. Like the memory of a dream. Couldn’t get it out of my head. I’m lying on the bed, right? Can’t move, can’t open my eyes. But I can hear your voice.”

“And what did I say?”

“You told me this story. This crazy story about something that happened with you and Dad. Something so terrible I—I didn’t think it could be true. Or maybe I just didn’t want to think it was true. But that’s what I remembered. So, I went to ask Paige if it was true. What I remembered you telling me. And she said that it was.”

The blood whooshes from her face. “What? She said—she told me she wouldn’t—”

“Pinks.”

(Don’t fuck this up, Adams. Do not fuck this up.)

He reaches out and touches his fingertips to hers. “I just want to say how sorry I am. I know that’s beyond inadequate. Honestly, I’m devastated. That he did that to you. That I never saw it, never knew. All this time. Just thinking about it now, I’m sick. I didn’t sleep for days. I—”

The words jam up in his throat. She stares down at his fingers intersecting with her fingers and he tries to force something out, anything.

“But forget that. It doesn’t matter how I feel about it. What matters is you, Pinks. What matters is that you went through this alone, that we failed you. That I failed you. So, I’m just here apologizing to you for what he did, from the bottom of my heart. And I understand why you left. I support whatever decision you felt you had to make. And I wish to God I knew how to make it better for you. Make it go away for you.”

She pulls her hand away. “I know I should have come to you sooner.”

“Mallory, I understand.”

“No one needs to know that about his own father. No one should have to carry that.”

“Pinks, for fuck’s sake. Did you think I wouldn’t understand? Not believe you?”

“Of course I knew you’d believe me. That’s the point. It would’ve wrecked you, like it’s wrecking you now.”

“Jesus, Mallory. Losing you wrecked me.”

“Monk, I was wrecked. I was so fucked up afterward. He made me think I’d asked for it, like I’d wanted it somehow. That it was my fault. All this shame. I wasn’t worthy of you anymore.”

He tries to remember the words he had ready for this. Something about loving her no matter what, nothing in the world more important than her. Just say something, he thinks. Idiot. Say anything.

“All by yourself, on that fucking ferry.” (Idiot, he thinks.) “All by yourself.”

“My mom picked me up at the terminal. Took me home.”

“Did you tell her what happened?”

“Sort of. Eventually. I mean, she knew something was wrong. And then, you know. Pregnant.”

“Pinks,” he says, scratchy voice, “I told you I would take care of you. Remember?”

“Not like this. Everything would’ve changed between us. You’d never want to touch me again, you’d be revolted—”

“Oh, Mallory. Revolted?”

“You would. It’s true. Your own father.” She looks down at her hands, knotting the apron in her lap. “And, to be honest, vice versa. I think, deep down, I was kind of scared it would have ruined you for me too. I would have looked at you and seen your dad, and I couldn’t stand that.”

“Do you? Now? See my dad?”

“No,” she says. “I can’t even picture him anymore, to be honest. And you’re nothing like him, nothing. You’re…well, you’re you. You gave Sam your kidney, for God’s sake.”

He rubs a thumb against his forehead. “But that’s the thing, Mallory. What’s so fucked up. My dad would’ve given me a kidney, if I needed it.”

She takes the corner of her apron and wipes at her eyes, leaving a few more streaks of dirt on her face. “Well, by the time I figured out what a fuckup he was—forgave myself, basically—you were this celebrity. You were Monk fucking Adams. You’d moved on. I couldn’t just turn up with Sam. Like the dumb mistake from your past.”

Careful, Adams. Watch your step. Don’t break anything.

He says, “Do you remember what I told you, when I picked you up that first day, at the ferry? I said I was going to look out for you. Not to worry. And I failed. I failed you. If I hadn’t taken that gig at the Mo that night—”

“Please don’t.”

“I never imagined he’d—I swear to God, if I’d had any idea he was capable of that shit, I never would have asked you to Winthrop, never would have left you alone with him for a second. It makes me sick, Pinks. All that time—all that time—I swear to God, I would kill him now. If he wasn’t dead already.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you.”

“Mallory,” he says. “Mallory.”

She spreads out the apron on her lap and smooths the wrinkles. Some sunlight plays in her hair. In his head, he hears the notes of a piano, a series of cascades like the fall of rain. He wants to cup his hands, to capture it, but like rain it slips between the cracks of his fingers. Maybe he’ll remember it later. Sometimes it works that way.

She says softly, “He sent me a letter, you know.”

“A letter? When?”

“A couple of weeks after he died. It came from his lawyer’s office, in Boston. But it was from him. In the event of my death kind of thing.”

“What did it say?”

“He used the word remorse. How recent events—I assumed he was talking about the whole MeToo thing?—made him reassess his past actions. Made him realize the imbalance of power and consent and blah blah. Made all these excuses about his marriage being on the rocks, his age catching up to him, all this bullshit, nothing about his issues with you—”

“With me?”

She looks at him with an expression you might call pity. “Monk, he was jealous of you. Of his own son. Didn’t you see that? I mean, of course he was proud. But you were also the man he wanted to be. Everything he could have been and wasn’t. And me, I was the help. I wasn’t the girl you were supposed to marry. The girl who would set you on the right track. So he had to put me in my place. To put me out of your reach.”

“Jesus, Pinks. You were not the help. You were my friend. My best friend. The love of my fucking life. He knew that.”

“Exactly,” she says. “And he wanted you back.”

He stands up and walks to the edge of the bricks. Shoves his hands into his pockets and turns his face up to the sky.

“There was a check inside,” she says. “Enclosed with the letter. For—get this—for twenty-five thousand dollars. I guess that’s the going rate?”

He turns. “Oh, shit, Pinks.”

“I ripped it up, obviously.”

For fuck’s sake, say something, he tells himself. Don’t be the asshole.

She speaks in a gentle voice. “Look, I made my choices. I thought I was doing the right thing for everyone. And now here we are. We have Sam. I’m sorry it took so long to get here. And if you want to take a DNA test—”

“A what?”

She meets his gaze. “To see if he’s really yours.”

Somewhere in his throat, there are words. He can’t get them out, though.

“Shit,” she says. “Think about it, Monk. You mean you haven’t even considered that—”

He sits back down and grabs her elbows. “Mallory, he’s mine. I didn’t consider because I already knew. Are you saying—”

“How did you know?”

“—all these years, you weren’t sure? You thought you might have had Dad’s baby? That’s why you didn’t tell me?”

“How do you know for sure, Monk?”

He lets go of her arms. “The DNA test, Pinks. The contract, remember? It was in the contract. Standard boilerplate for paternity agreements. Pending DNA confirmation. Don’t you remember?”

Her green eyes open wide.

“Pinks,” he says, “tell me you read that agreement before you signed it.”

“Well, I trusted you.”

“That’s beside the point! I don’t care if you’re signing a contract with God, you read the fucking contract first! Trust me on that. I’m in the music business.”

Mallory looks down at her lap and brushes at some dirt on her apron. “I might have been a little mad at the whole situation. At the time.”

“Whatever. You can set your mind at ease. You’re not—Jesus—Imean, it doesn’t even matter to me, you know that? He’s got my kidney. He’s mine. But also, he happens to be biologically mine. Not that I would even care. If he weren’t. Because he’s yours, and we…you and me, that summer, we…Look, Pinks—”

She stands and swipes up the empty beer bottles. “I’m just going to go inside and put these in the recycling, okay?”

Monk stares at the row of sunflowers across the garden and slowly, deliberately bangs his head against the wooden table.

What did we talk about, Adams? What did we talk about?

Don’t. Fuck. This. Up.

He finds her in the kitchen, rinsing out the beer bottles with maniacal thoroughness. On the table next to the window, Aunt Barbara’s roses sit in a glass vase.

“Hey,” he says. Idiot.

“Hey,” she says.

He takes a deep breath and forces his voice into the cheerful range. “So. You and Sedge Peabody, huh?”

She aims some side eye at him. “Mmm-hmm.”

“He’s a good guy. I’m happy for you.”

“We’re taking it slow at the moment,” she says. “I’ve been pretty focused on Sam’s recovery the past couple months.”

“He’s a lot richer than me. Be nice for you.”

“Oh, you know me. It’s my dream to fly private and buy those shoes with the red soles. Limousines or whatever they’re called.”

“Louboutins, Mallory. Personally, I think you look hot in flip-flops, but sure. Whatever makes you happy.” He leans back against the kitchen counter and folds his arms. “And hey, at least one of us is getting laid, right?”

“Oh? Haven’t the doctors cleared you yet?”

“Pinks, it’s not just a question of having a doctor’s note.”

Another sideways glance.

“So…you and Lee…?”

He shrugs. “She kept the ring.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Are you, Pinks? Sorry?”

She turns off the faucet and stares at the bottle in her hands. Her thumb runs around the rim. “I know that she loves you. That you’re the love of her life. So, yes. I’m sorry.”

He stares at her thumb and thinks, Careful.

“I was sorry to hurt her,” he says, examining each word before it leaves his mouth, “but I couldn’t pretend any longer. Either to myself or to her. Which brings me to something else. I want to apologize to you personally, Mallory, for what Lee posted on Instagram—the way she violated your privacy and Sam’s—”

She waves a hand. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Yeah, well, my dad made a mistake too. And I would argue that mistake revealed more about him than thirty years of thinking I saw the full man, warts and all.” He turns to face her, leaning his hip against the counter. “I’ll tell you what, Pinks. How about I give you veto control over the next one, okay? Any girl I get involved with has to pass the Mallory test.”

“I don’t know if I can handle that kind of power.”

“Well, we’re co-parenting, right? So you have a stake in whoever I’m seeing. And vice versa.”

“Oh, vice versa. I knew there was a catch.”

Finally, a smile turns up the corner of her mouth. He uncrosses his arms and sets one hand on the edge of the counter, not far from hers.

“I guess I should tell you, Peabody came to see me,” he says. “Kind of decent of him, I have to admit. This was about the middle of August, when I was back home recuperating. He laid out his feelings for you. Asked how things stood between you and me.”

“And what did you tell him?”

The kitchen faces the patio and garden. Mallory won’t look at him; she’s looking at her pear trees in the distance. Like she’s trying to make them come alive or something. Drop all their pears and dance for her.

It’s go time, Adams. Like we rehearsed in the shower. In the car on the way down.

“I told him,” Monk says, reaching up to brush at one of the dirt streaks on her face, “that I was still crazy in love with you, pretty much, that I loved you more than anything in the world except Sam, obviously, this beautiful kid that we made together, and even then it’s more like a dead heat, like the two equal pieces of my heart, and if he ever hurt a hair on your head I’d knock his nuts clear into Long Island Sound.”

And there it is. Out there in the open. Your ball, Pinks.

She sets down the beer bottle she’s been holding. Sits her palms on the edge of the big farmhouse sink and stares at the drain.

Okay. Still his ball.

“Mallory,” he says, “it’s fair to say I’ve had a lot of time alone with my thoughts, the last couple of months. Probably too much time. I’ve been thinking about how, a while back, I got my heart broke in a million pieces, so I wrote some sad songs and turned on this fire hose that became my life, that filled the hole you left behind. And now I maybe need to turn that hose down. For Sam’s sake. For yours.”

At last, she turns to him. “What? You can’t quit music!”

“I’m not talking about quitting music, Pinks. Music, it’s what I am. It’s how I say what’s in my head. My heart. And I guess I love the high of performing, I’m not gonna lie. But to record another album right now, do another tour—what does that do for me? Nothing I need. Nothing I even want. More money? More of this celebrity shit, so I can’t even have a basic fucking heart attack in peace and quiet? So I can’t get caught in a bad parallel parking situation without the whole world pissing its pants laughing?”

She looks away to stare out the window. “All right. What do you want, Monk?”

He edges closer, so his fingers brush hers, there on the edge of the sink. What is it about her, he needs to touch her? Like magnets or something. He can’t be without her touch.

“I already told you what I wanted. Fourteen years ago, I told you all about it. Honestly, none of that has changed. I want the same things. Maybe even more than I did then. But I was just a dumb kid. Everything was all about me. I never asked what you wanted.”

“Yes, you did. You asked me if I wanted it too.”

“That’s not the same thing. At all. So tell me, Pinks. What do you want? What can I carry to your table?”

“I already have what I want. I have Sam. I have a healthy son again. You already gave me that. And I can never, ever thank you enough. And I have my house that I love, my garden. My work.” She brushes back her hair. “I have you standing here in my kitchen. Alive. What more could I ask for?”

“Pinks, you’re killing me. Come on.”

“I guess, you know, what I said before. I want to be able to start my own design house, someday.”

“That’s better,” he says. “Keep going.”

She takes a deep breath. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Bring it, Pinko. I’m here for all of it.”

In a rush, she says, “I want Sam to have a sibling. Or two. Okay? Before he gets any older, before I get any older. And I want someone to share all that with me, because it’s pretty damn lonely feeding a newborn at three o’clock in the morning, trust me. And the diapers and the tantrums and the endless fucking Saturday-morning soccer.”

“What are you talking about, girl? Saturday-morning soccer is the best. Earlier the better. Hangover a plus, I’ll bet.”

“And I want a dog.”

“Dog. Check. Anything else?”

“If I ever get married,” she says to the garden outside the window, “which is not necessarily on the wish list, but if it happens, I want it to be small and quiet and perfect, without any wedding planners or social media. And then I want to go to Europe and see the museums.”

“But you just said—”

“I know what I said. After Europe I want to take some road trips. I want to go to Santa Fe, to see the O’Keeffes. And all the Native American art.”

“You have a lot on your list, Pinks. You think Sedge Peabody is up for all that?”

Finally, she turns back to face him. “I like Sedge Peabody a lot. He’s a great guy. He’s funny. We have a lot of chemistry.”

“You can stop now.”

“And he lives a normal life. Nobody wants his autograph. Nobody wants to sleep with him. I mean, not nobody, obviously. But not everybody.”

“Everybody does not want to sleep with me, Pinks. And even if everybody did…”

He wipes at another streak of dirt.

“Don’t stop,” she says. “I need to know how that sentence ends.”

Monk turns to the sink and picks up the dishcloth hanging from the faucet arm. He wets it with a short blast of water and turns back to wipe gently along her cheekbones, that spot on her chin. At her temple.

“All right, Pinko. This is important, okay? Are you listening?”

“All ears.”

“Since the exact second I staggered back to shore from my nice little quiet swim in the sea and found you sitting there on our old beach, like a fucking cosmic hallucination, like a miracle, like Venus in her goddamn shell, except with clothes on, unfortunately, Pinks, I have looked at nobody but you. Nobody.” He makes a last wipe and turns her face this way and that. All clean. “Is that clear?”

Her brow furrows. “What about…?”

“No, Pinks. We didn’t. Not even once. Not while you were under my roof, okay? I couldn’t do that to you. And I think Lee realized that. She saw how it was. She wasn’t her best self. And, you know, it was for the best. At least I don’t have that damn phone in my face all the time.”

Mallory lets out a laugh and leans her forehead into his chest. He puts his arms around her to keep her there. Her hair smells like applesauce.

“Also, Grace came back. I had to play the heart attack card. Go on my knees and beg. But she came back.”

“Are you going to go on your knees for me?”

“You want me on my knees, I’ll go on my knees.”

She reaches around her back and takes his hands. “I kind of like it when you go on your knees,” she says.

Afterward, she makes him turn on his stomach and draws her finger along the scar on his lower back. He rests his head on his arm and stares at the dreamy gold light slanting from the window. Feels her touch like it’s the sun on his skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do this?” she asks.

“Because you had Sam’s surgery to worry about. I didn’t want you to have to worry about me too,” he says. “That backfired, obviously.”

She turns on her side next to him and tucks her hands under her cheek. “Your heart, Monk. It stopped.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Not planning on it.”

“What was it like?”

“I just remember kind of coming to—not exactly conscious, just low-level aware—and thinking this is bad, this is not the way it was supposed to go.”

“Did it hurt? Were you in pain?”

He thinks back. “I don’t remember pain, exactly. Just feeling like I’d been kicked by a whole stable of horses. But also knowing you were there. Somehow I knew you were with me. And I knew that if you were with me, then Sam must have come through okay, because you wouldn’t leave Sam alone if he wasn’t okay. So I just hoped you were okay. I just thought, please God, take care of them for me. If I have to go.”

Mallory lifts her arm and drapes it around the back of his head. Her eyes are wet.

“I sat there next to your bed and thought, how stupid was I? What kind of a scared dumbfuck kid was I? I should have trusted you. We could have had all this time. We could have shared so much. And I was afraid your time was up, and Sam would lose you, and I would lose you. And until that second I thought that the worst thing in the world had already happened to me, but this was a million times worse. You gone.”

“Pinks, I know. I heard you.”

“You were asleep.”

“I remember your voice. Like a thread, you know? Holding me to the world. And I thought, if I get out of here alive, I can’t let hergo.”

She leans forward and kisses him. He turns on his side and draws her close. She burrows deep, like she’s trying to get inside his skin. Like she’s not already there.

“I think we should get married,” he says.

“We can’t just have a nice fling?”

“No, Pinks. Not this time. Sorry. We have to do it right. For the kid. For the kids.”

“Kids?”

“Maybe I missed something back there, but it seems to me like we’re already trying?” He gives her a kiss, because she’s right there and he’s allowed to kiss her now. “I’m thinking kind of a Columbus Day weekend thing. Winthrop’s a ghost town in October; we’d have the place to ourselves. Nice and easy. Sam. Paige and the girls. Mom and Vicky. Chippy and Blue and whoever else can make it. Your dad, obviously, if he’s into it. My manager, Kevin—you remember meeting Kevin, right? That little all-clear party at the hospital? The one who called you Rosebud?”

She laughs into the hollow of his throat.

“Kevin and his husband. Kevin’s a good guy, he’s been there for me. Grace’ll bake us one of her cakes. She’ll be stoked, she adores you. What do you think, Pinko? Tie the knot? Columbus weekend?”

“Monk. That’s like, three weeks away.”

“Sam’s thirteen, Pinks. He’s not getting any younger. Neither are we.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m not the one with a damn pacemaker in my chest.”

She says it like a joke, except the word pacemaker catches in her throat.

Monk strokes her arm and stares across the room at the old brown chest of drawers, the mirror that stands on top of it. He thinks of her climbing out of this bed in this room, morning after morning, opening the drawers, getting dressed, getting Sam ready for school, and how all that time he had no idea they were living right here under his nose, in this little farmhouse across the water in Mystic. Her reflection in the mirror, morning after morning.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“It wasn’t because you were the nanny,” he says. “Maybe a little. But mostly because you’re immaculate.”

She laughs. “Immaculate? Me?”

“Incorruptible. He had no power over you. All these assholes, it’s about power.”

“Hey.” She lays her hand on his cheek and turns his head. “Look at me.”

He looks. She stares earnestly through his eyeballs into his dreams.

“It’s important to know where you came from,” she says. “It’s a part of you. But it doesn’t have to define you. They give you the paper and ink, but you write the story yourself.”

Those eyes. The color of spring, he thinks.

“Tell me something, Pinks,” he says softly. “Do you think we would have made it? If my dad hadn’t done what he did. If we’d taken off together on that road trip, like we planned.”

“Do you?”

“Look, all I know is the way I feel now. And if fourteen years later you’re more beautiful to me than ever, inside and out, then yes. I think we could have survived whatever life threw at us. What do you think?”

“I think it would have been hard. I do. We were a couple of kids, Monk. We would have been a couple of kids with a baby, really struggling, and the music thing wouldn’t have happened for you right away. It would have happened eventually—I mean, your talent, it’s just too big—but even that would have been hard, because of Sam. Because of all the pressure.”

“Life’s supposed to be hard. You have to fight for what you love. And I would have fought for you and Sam. I would have fought so hard for this.”

“Would you? With all the bright, shiny things thrown your way?”

He picks his words. “Pinks, do you remember when we were lying on that beach together, and I finally worked up the guts to tell you how I felt about you? And you said you couldn’t believe I didn’t already know I was the sun to your earth?”

“Oh God, you remember that? I can’t believe I said something so corny.”

“Not corny. It was just wrong. It’s the other way around. You’re the sun. I’m just here soaking you up, Pinks. So yes, I would have fought for us. I would have fought like hell. Because I happen to know how dark and basically fucked up my world is when you’re not in it.”

She looks away and lays her head back down against his chest.

“Listen,” he says. “I’m so sorry you’re going to have to put up with all this shit to be with me. I understand, I do. I know you love your house, your garden, this beautiful life you’ve made for yourself. I’m not asking you or Sam to leave all that for me. We can do this however you want. Just maybe clear out a couple of drawers for me and—”

“Oh, Monk.” She laughs and lifts her head again, so he can see the tears there. “A couple of drawers?”

“I mean, we can’t move Sam, right? He’s got his school here.”

“Well, since you brought it up, I should probably tell you that I’ve already put you down to play the PTA carnival in May.”

“The what?”

Mallory kisses the tip of his nose. “Kidding.”

“Pinko,” he says, “sign me up. I honestly can’t think of a better gig than my kid’s school carnival.”

She rolls away and laughs at the ceiling. The sound of her laugh, it’s like the whole world turns gold. “Monk. Oh my God, Monk. Yes. You are absolutely right. I love my little bitty house and my little bitty garden. But you know what? I love you more.”

“So, what I’m hearing is you’ll let me buy us a bigger house? Like, your dream house?”

“I’m saying my dream house is the one you’re in.”

For that, he kisses her mouth, kisses her neck. Just touching his mouth to her skin makes him horny again. Less than half an hour ago they were mating like wildcats, desperate to get back to where they’d been, to plant their flags back on each other.

Cathartic as hell. But not enough.

Now he takes some time to savor her. The undersides of her breasts; the curve of her belly, where Sam grew. The backs of her knees, between her legs. She tastes the same, it’s a miracle, she drugs him. She pulls at his hair and sings as she comes. He lifts his head and sinks his face into the sweetness of her stomach. Kisses his way across her belly button, her ribs, between her breasts. She cups her palms around his cheeks and smiles at him with her whole face, her green eyes, incorruptible, and he thinks with raw, sudden shame of the other hands that have touched his body, the other bodies he has touched with his hands. The guilt of it drenches him. He can’t stand it, her faith. He opens his mouth to explain, to confess. The first time I slept with someone else, it was twenty-two months and eleven days after you left. I threw up afterward and then poured myself a drink and went back to bed and we did it again. I remember the hotel room but I don’t remember her name.

Before he can speak, she turns his head a few inches to the side and touches her thumb to the scar on his jaw. “Lacrosse stick, eleven years old,” she says.

So he pushes back inside her and loses his mind.

Maybe they fall asleep, who knows. He’s not sure whether the noise of voices outside the window startles him out of a daydream or a real one. He looks down at the woman tucked under his arm, blinking her eyes open.

“Expecting someone?” he asks.

She looks at the clock on the bedside table. “Sam’s not done with soccer practice until four. And he knows you’re supposed to pick him up.”

He kisses her forehead and swings out of bed. “I’ll check it out. Stay here.”

He pulls on his shirt and pants and peers out the window. Mallory’s bedroom is above the porch; he can’t see anyone, but there’s a black Mercedes SUV parked outside that looks like the one Paige drives.

“I think it’s your sister,” he says.

Mallory sits up, flushed and tousled, clutching the sheets to her chest like some kind of Victorian maiden. “Paige?” she whispers. “What’s she doing here?”

And it hits him again. The soft, sweet punch to the gut. Like that morning she stood shivering outside her mom’s house on Cape Cod to see him off and he had to kiss her lips, kiss her goodbye. Like that morning he cracked open his eyes in the guesthouse bed, after making love to her most of the night, and saw the blush of dawn on her skin. Like that June afternoon he stepped ashore, shook out his hair, and saw her sitting there on his beach, their beach, knees tucked under her chin.

She owns you, man. That’s it, that’s all. Lights out.

The front door creaks open. Paige’s voice calls up from the hallway. “Maaaaalloreeee? Are you in here? Isn’t that Monk’s car in the driveway?”

“Busted,” he says.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going downstairs, what else?”

“Monk, wait!”

He walks out of the bedroom, around the landing, and down the stairs. Paige stands with her back to the front door, looking into the kitchen. She swivels as she hears Monk on the steps and takes him in with wide, startled eyes—his rumpled clothes, his bare feet, his disorderly hair.

“Hey, Paige,” he says. “Can I help you?”

“Monk? Hi. Hello. I was…you know, looking for Mallory?”

“She’s upstairs,” he says. “In bed.”

“Coming!” Mallory calls down.

Paige folds her arms. “Please tell me you were wearing protection this time.”

“It’s okay, honest. We’re engaged.”

“I didn’t actually say yes, you know!” calls Mallory.

“Still working out a few kinks,” Monk says. “But she’ll come around, I promise. What’s up?”

Paige looks bewildered, like she can’t remember her own name. She gathers herself and turns to the living room, which Monk can’t quite see because of the angle of the stairs. She holds out her hand and beckons. “I brought someone to meet my sister.”

Into the hall steps an elderly man, wearing a flat cap and a white beard and a brown corduroy jacket over a blue knit shirt and a pair of worn tan pants. He offers a hand to Monk.

“Sir. Monk Adams,” says Monk, shaking the hand, the way he was taught.

The man nods and glances up the stairs, where Mallory’s just appeared on the landing in her jeans and her sleeveless gingham shirt, hair gathered back up in its knot. Cheeks still pink. Green eyes luminous, brows cocked inquisitively upward.

Monk lifts his arm and holds out his hand for her.

“Mallory,” says Paige, like she’s unwrapping a present for a small child. “I want to introduce you to somebody. This man was born in Hungary. He was kidnapped by Soviet soldiers as a baby during the Second World War and raised outside of Leningrad. After the Berlin Wall came down, he traveled back to Hungary and tracked down his birth mother.”

The man says, “Hannah Vécsey.”

By now Mallory’s reached the bottom of the stairs and put her left hand into Monk’s right hand. He knits his fingers with hers and thinks of Aunt Barbara’s ring, tucked into the inside pocket of the laptop bag. How it will look on her finger, what she’ll say when she sees it.

Mallory turns to the old man, a little bemused.

Paige’s words fall into Monk’s head on a time delay. “Wait a second,” he says. “Birth mother? Are you saying…”

The man steps forward and reaches for Mallory’s other hand. He folds it between a pair of kindly, callused palms.

“My dear,” he says, in a heavy Slavic accent, “I promised your grandmother I would find you. My name is Károly. Count Vécsey.”