“I know it. It’s pretty—”

“Over seven hundred thousand pounds of pure steel. Biggest world on earth.”

Rowan cringed now, recalling how he’d just been trying to boast and hear himself talk. He remembered the weekend because it was the end of September, the autumn leaves were turning. Hilary was leaving for Ireland.

He got off the parkway at Exit 32 and onto Route 120 and drove down into Chappaqua. From memory he knew the house was somewhere near, but made two wrong turns before he found Cedar Lane. He parked the car alongside the curb in front of the mailbox of number 57. A decal of ducks flew across the aluminum box. It was then that Rowan recalled Jack Barrett had been editor-in-chief of Field & Stream. An American flag the size of a large beach towel angled out under a black porch of the white, shingled house. On the seat beside him lay the music for his tribute to Burdy.

And grace will lead me home.

He blew a sigh and got out of the car.

The Barrett house was a Colonial Revival with black shutters sitting on a well-manicured front lawn with a two-car garage on an acre of land. To the left, an old red maple rose from the center of a bed of pachysandra. To the right, an old-fashioned rose bed. Simple and elegant and impressive. The front inner door was open and he could see into a foyer through a screen door. A mound of shoes—a pair each of loafers, boots, and running shoes—were piled inside to the left at the base of a stairway.

Rowan knocked on the wooden frame and waited.

A man accompanied by a black Labrador came to the door. He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap and khaki shorts and a black T-shirt. “Who have we here, Bullet?” the man said, looking down to the dog and scratching its head. “Hey, fella?” He turned back to Rowan. “Friend or foe?” He didn’t open the screen door.

“Hello, Mr. Barrett.”

As Mr. Barrett studied the stranger standing at his front door, his face transitioned from friendly curiosity to vexation. It only took a few seconds. “What do you want?” Bullet’s back stiffened and his tail heightened as he responded to the tone of his owner’s voice.

“It’s been a long time—” Rowan said.

“Seventeen years and a few months. And not long enough.”

“I have to speak with you … please.”

“Whatever it is, I’m not interested.” Bullet’s mouth curled and he growled. Jack Barrett was about the same age as Rowan’s father, late sixties. He stood squarely in the doorway.

“It’s important.”

“Jack? Jack? What is it?” A tall woman with graying hair tied up in an elegant bun appeared behind Jack. Marjorie Barrett was carrying small pruning scissors and wore one gardening glove.

“Please, Mrs. Barrett, Jack … I have to know if.… Did Hilary…?”

“Blake!” Jack Barrett raised his voice. “You—”

“Jack,” Mrs. Barrett said gently, putting her hand on his arm. “Don’t. Please.” She stepped in front of him. “I’m sorry, Rowan. It’s been a long time.” Mrs. Barrett went to open the screen door. “I know why you’re here.”

“Is it true? Did Hilary? Did she? Did she have a baby?” The words lurched up from Rowan’s gut.

Mr. Barrett stayed his wife’s hand on the door handle and stared at Rowan a moment, his lips quivering, and then he stomped off, leaving his wife with her head down, staring at the floor, then she, too, turned and walked deep into her home.

If there had been a chair or bench Rowan would have collapsed onto it. Instead his head sunk and he clasped his hands over his head. His shoulders heaved up and down and he sobbed. The energy rising in him, like a tornado, was so intense he had to move so as not to fall. He went around in a small circle on the graveled path to regain his balance.

Inside the house Bullet was barking.

Because he had to do something, because his world was spinning out of control, Rowan grabbed a fistful of gravel and threw it across the lawn. Pathetic. He bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, looking down at the circle of pachysandra around the red maple. He wanted to yank it out.

Then the front door of the house opened. Mrs. Barrett came toward Rowan with slow steps. In her brown eyes he saw Hilary. He backed away as she advanced.

“I’m sorry,” he said and let go of the last of the sharp gravel in his hand.

She extended her hand to him. “I hoped one day you would come. I didn’t know how or why or when. But I’d hoped you would because I wanted you to know. The birth of a child is a miracle. No matter what. It’s a sign that the world goes on, with or without us, it goes on. And you are a part of that.” She put her hand on the side of his face and left it there a moment.

Rowan pulled awkwardly on the flagged path. “Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was too late. There was nothing you, or we, could have done by the time we learned about the baby. It’s the way Hilary wanted it. I’m so sorry. It was a mistake … not to tell you.” Marjorie’s eyes teared as she watched him take this in, watched as his thoughts crisscrossed his face, reconstructing the past as if he were adding and subtracting all the permutations and reconciling the past with the present.

“No. I’m sorry. The mistake was mine. I should never have broken it off. Fact is, Mrs. Barrett, there hasn’t been anyone like Hilary in my life … since.”

“Here,” she said. “We found this after … after … here…” The words choked her throat. She handed Rowan a neatly folded piece of notepaper. It was inside a sealed plastic bag. “Hilary meant for you to have this. It tells you everything.”

Thirteen

When Pierce arrived at the White Horse Tavern in Chappaqua it was empty except for Rowan. He was sitting near the front window, staring at the piece of paper in his hands. He folded it when his brother approached. Pierce came over quickly, sat down opposite. They stayed like that a few moments, Pierce watching Rowan, and Rowan watching three small boys sitting on a bench across the street. They were horsing around and laughing.

“What’s happened?” Pierce said.

The bartender, a young woman in shorts and a polo shirt, came to the table.

“I’ll have another,” Rowan said. And to his brother, “You want something?”

His brother looked at Rowan’s empty glass, then to the bartender, and said, “No. No, thanks. I’m fine. Maybe water.” Then to Rowan, he said, “Buddy? It’s early for that. Let’s wait till we’re back at Mother’s.” The woman shrugged and went away.

Rowan didn’t get angry. He might have, but he didn’t. Something was happening to him. He wasn’t sure what. He said, “Allow me to quote the proverbial words of the great Irishman Edmund Burke,” he said, “I may be turning over a new leaf.”

“What?”

“It’s a Coke. I’m drinking Coke.”

“Good. That’s good.” Pierce paused. “Sorry.” And then, as if unable to remain patient any longer, Pierce shifted in his chair and made to get up. Half sitting, half standing, he said, somewhat exasperated, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Yes. Sit down.”

“Will I need a drink for this?”

The bartender laid the Coke in front of Rowan and raised her eyes. When she was out of earshot, Pierce said, “Okay, tell me.”

Rowan recounted the entire incident. The barking dog, Jack Barrett, the red maple, the American flag, Marjorie Barrett, and the letter. He showed the letter, but didn’t give it to him. “Hilary had written this but she never sent it. Her parents found it among her things.”

“Oh, Jesus. It’s addressed to you.”

Rowan looked again out the window where a woman, about the age of their mother, was tying the shoes of one of the little boys. “Yes, it’s addressed to me.”

After a time he turned back. “She did have a baby. A girl.”

Pierce might have prepared for something like this, but the look on his face showed his shock and his hand rose instinctively to cover his brother’s outstretched hand.