“Which sort of makes you wonder, don’t it?”

“Wonder what?”

Theo lifted the pan from the flame, then slid the steaks onto dinner plates. “Maybe you should be listening to that Mr. Potato.”

“Pintado.”

“Whatever. My point is this: Just maybe-she’s not innocent.”

Theo grabbed the plates and started toward the family room. Jack stood frozen at the kitchen counter. He’d had his doubts, to be sure. But coming from Theo’s lips, just hearing it out loud, gave it an entirely different impact.

“You coming?” said Theo.

Jack was sifting through a stack of mail at the kitchen counter.

“Hey, Clarence Darrow. I said it’s time to eat.”

Jack held up a large manila envelope. “It’s from Lindsey.”

“Wow. That is the fastest ‘I still love you’ card in the history of the U.S. Postal Service.”

“No. It’s postmarked three days ago. Before our blowup.”

Theo laid the plates of fish on the table. “This should be interesting.”

“It’s addressed to me, Theo. Not us.”

“I slave all day, cook your meals, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Go away.”

“Fine.” He took both plates of tuna and threw his nose into the air, a bit like an all-pro linebacker pretending to be a ticked-off housewife. “There’s Cheerios in the cupboard.”

Unless you already ate them, thought Jack.

He waited for Theo to sink into the couch and lose himself in ESPN before opening the letter with a kitchen knife. He hesitated, then reached inside and pulled out a handful of photographs. He sifted through the stack quickly, then went through them again more slowly. They were all snapshots of Brian, some of them quite old, others more recent. A picture of Brian with his soccer team. A picture of Brian and his mother. Another one of Brian and his dad. They were saluting the flag. Oscar was wearing his khaki Marine uniform.

The last photograph was of Brian as a newborn. His mother and father were with him, locked in the awkward and tangled embrace that was so typical of new parents who had no idea how to hold a tiny infant. Jack couldn’t be certain, but it appeared to be Brian’s first day with his adoptive parents. They looked so happy together, which gave him a good feeling. But then he wondered how Jessie must have felt at that very same moment, the birth mother all alone, far removed from any celebration. Jack’s sense of joy faded, and it vanished altogether as he thought about his own life on that day. By the time young Brian had looked into the eyes of his proud adoptive parents, Jack had completely moved on from Jessie, unaware that she was even pregnant. He’d already attained a remarkable level of self-delusion, having convinced himself that Jessie was not “The One,” that Cindy Paige would spend the rest of her life as Cindy Swyteck.

Jack put the photographs aside and removed the letter from the envelope. He unfolded it slowly, not sure what to expect. It was handwritten in smooth, beautiful cursive.

Dear Jack,

I wanted you to have these photographs of Brian. He is a special little boy, and he’s becoming a young man in a hurry. I know that one day he will be so grateful for everything you are doing to help keep our family together, now that Oscar is gone.

Jack, I know it’s important to you that I be innocent. Believe me, I understand that. And I respect it, too. I would have no right to raise my son if the things people are saying about me were true. I don’t know how to give you the comfort you need, but if it would help, I would be more than happy to take a lie detector test. Just let me know when and where.

Thank you again for being there for us. Fondly, Lindsey.

Jack started to read it again, then quickly laid it facedown on the counter as Theo returned to the kitchen. His friend nearly broke two fishless dinner plates as he dropped them into the sink. In less than five minutes he’d eaten enough seared tuna to feed a Tokyo suburb.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Theo.

“Lindsey sent me some photos.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “We talkin’ hot-moms-dot-com material?”

“No, pervert. Photographs of her son. And a letter.”

“What she say?”

“She offered to take a polygraph. And remember, this was written before our fight today.”

“Heh. Ain’t that a kick in the head?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you don’t believe in polygraphs.”

“I don’t. But I tend to believe a recent widow and single mother who offers to take one. Especially when she says you pick the time, you pick the place, you pick the tester. You see the difference?”

“Yeah, I do. So, now what?”

“I don’t know. You got any suggestions?”

“Yeah,” he said as he walked toward the fridge. “How ’bout dessert?”

Jack stared at the letter, hopelessly confused. Finally, he looked at Theo and said, “That’s the best damn idea I’ve heard in a long time.”

Jack went food shopping with Abuela. This wasn’t just the dutiful grandson taking his grandmother to the grocery store. This was Jack’s biweekly lesson in Cuban culture.

“What you like for eating, mi vida?”

Mi vida. Literally it meant “my life,” and Jack loved being her vida. “Camarones?” he said.

“Ah, shreemp. Muy bien.”

It was part of their routine, Jack speaking bad Spanish, Abuela answering in bad English. Jack did the best he could for a half-Cuban kid who’d been raised one hundred percent gringo, which, of course, was the point of their little visits together to the grocery store. Mario’s on Douglas Road was the neighborhood market in an area that began to establish itself as Cuban American with the first wave of immigrants in the 1960s. More than three decades later the conversion was complete, and Mario’s Market was virtually unchanged, owned and operated since 1968 by a smiling old man named Kiko (there never was a Mario, he just liked the alliteration). A cup of café con leche was still just thirty-five cents at the breakfast counter in front. Nine aisles of food were stuffed with the basic essentials of life, including twenty-pound sacks of long-grain rice, bistec palamillo sliced to order, delicious caramel flan topping, an assortment of cooking wines to satisfy the most discerning chefs, and glass-encased candles painted with the holy images of Santa Bárbara and San Lázaro. Established customers could buy on credit, and the best Cuban bread in town, baked on the premises, could be purchased straight from the hot ovens in back. All you had to do was follow your nose, or for the olfactory deprived, follow the signs and arrows marked PAN CALIENTE. Jack had driven past the store a thousand times on his way downtown, and he would have kept right on driving for the rest of his life had his grandmother not come to the United States and opened a whole new set of doors for him. Twice a month they visited Mario’s together to select the freshest ingredients, and then Abuela would come over to Jack’s kitchen and demonstrate the old family recipes.

Abuela was a phenomenal cook. She always seemed to be preparing a meal or planning the next one, as if on a mission to make up for thirty-eight years of living under Castro with virtually nothing to cook and nothing to eat. Almost five years had passed since Jack’s father called to tell him that Abuela was coming to Miami, and Abuela became Jack’s window to the past-to his mother’s roots. Of course there would always be the gap that no one could fill, the gaping hole of a life that was never lived, the tragedy of a mother who died bringing her son into the world. Jack’s father had told him stories about Ana Maria, the beautiful young Cuban girl with whom Harry had fallen head over heels in love. Jack knew how they’d met, he knew about the fresh yellow flower she used to wear in her long brown hair, he knew how jaws would drop when she walked into a party, and he knew that when someone told a joke, she was the first to laugh and the last to stop. All of those things mattered to Jack, but even on those rare occasions when his father did open up and talk about the wife he’d lost, he could offer Jack only a snippet of her life, just the handful of those final years in Miami. Abuela was the rest of the story. When she talked of her sweet, young daughter, her aging eyes would light up with so much magic that Jack could be certain that Ana Maria had truly lived. And Abuela could be certain that she still lived, the way only a grandmother could be certain of such things, the kind of certainty that came when you took a grandchild by the hand, or looked into his eyes, or cupped his cheek in your hand, and the generations seemed to blur.