‘I thought all the tears might be gone, Father. But they are never gone.’

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the handkerchief. She took it, surprised, somehow, and grateful.

‘My mother hemorrhaged to death giving birth to twin girls. But Norma couldn’t raise two children—she could scarcely take care of herself. I was older than my sister by four minutes. As much as Norma wanted to please my father by taking us both, she chose the firstborn.

‘Our father consented to letting Irene go, you see. Norma called our mother’s brother, the only family we had, and he and his wife came for her when she was two months old. Norma didn’t tell them that Mother had had twins. She said no one knew, really, our parents had few friends—Father did all his socializing away from home.’

The uniformed driver stood by the limo, hands behind his back, a minor spectacle that caused traffic to slow.

‘I didn’t know I had a sister until just before Norma died in March. I was stunned by this news. Devastated, really.

‘There had been a barrier between Norma and me all those years, I felt it keenly. I think now it was because of her guilt for taking part in separating us. Norma’s life had been all about separation and grieving, and she passed that along to others.’

‘Your father?’

‘Daddy provided a great deal of money. I had everything the other girls in our convent school had, but something was missing, always missing. All my life, there’s been a kind of ache, a void of the worst sort. I thought the yearning was for my mother or for God, or a marriage that might actually work or the children I couldn’t have.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Or all the above.’

There was the oddly distracted look that he had seen in Irene.

‘Didn’t Norma tell you how to find your sister?’

‘She didn’t know. There was no contact with my uncle all those years, and when we searched the phone books in Illinois . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing. As it turned out, they had moved to La Jolla when I was fourteen. Irene was living just two hundred miles from me.’

She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes.

‘Norma said my uncle despised my father, who was a man for the women. When they took Irene, he promised legal action if Daddy ever tried to intervene in any way. Norma told me that Daddy was relieved, though he did offer financial help. Financial help was refused, and so Daddy left it alone. I think he quite forgot about Irene, actually, as if she never existed.’

He wondered if his father had forgotten about Henry . . .

‘Norma felt that Irene may have lacked for a great deal when she was growing up. My uncle had more pride than money. It’s another reason I’ve felt unsure about doing this. How would Irene feel if she knew I was chosen for the so-called good life?’

‘I see.’

‘And would it be frightening for her if I showed up out of the blue, starved for family as I’ve always been, and perhaps wanting too much? Or what if she’s somehow known about me all along and decided not to make contact?’

Henry had alluded to feelings like these.

‘Coming to Mitford a few weeks ago was as much a hunch as it was a strong lead. I’ve had a team of investigators working on this for months—we didn’t know whether my sister was permitted to keep the name our mother chose—Irene Elizabeth. And when we finally got the lead to McGraw, we found quite a few Irene McGraws. That took a lot of time to sift through, and we were confused by the several addresses—the home in Florida, a property in Montana, the home here, and no pictures of Irene on the Internet. All we could find were of Chester in his many philanthropic activities, and only one of his wife, who had turned away from the camera.’

And there was a customer going into the bookstore, someone thin and slightly stooped.

‘I was out running a couple of weeks ago,’ he said, ‘and saw your car head down the mountain. You seemed in a hurry.’

‘My director had just died. We were very close; I did four films with him. I felt I was really getting on to something in Mitford; we had stopped by your house when the call came. I was relieved, in a way. I felt I was close to the truth at last, and it frightened me.’

‘I understand that.’

‘I thought about calling Irene from L.A., but that seemed impersonal, like news from a government agency. I wanted to see her face when she learned the truth—and if we were really sisters, I wanted us to experience the joy at the same moment.’ She smiled at him now. ‘Just the thought of it takes my breath away.’

‘And mine, too, I have to say.’

‘So when the Muse ran the little piece about her return from Georgia, I decided to come again.’

J.C.’s labors in the publishing vineyard had wrought a cup of good wine.

‘In reading about your generosity to others, Father, I thought perhaps you would help me with this. Perhaps you could arrange a meeting somehow?’

‘Of course.’

‘Because I can’t simply show up at her door. I mean, what would you do if you found after so many years that you had a brother?’

He laughed, astonished. ‘Funny you should ask.’

•   •   •

‘GOTTA GO. I won’t ask what you were doin’ in that limo. Aren’t you glad I’m not nosy like everybody else in this town?’

‘Very glad,’ he said. ‘Sorry to be so long. Who came in?’

‘A professor from Wesley. Grumpy as heck. Somethin’ about a book you gave his son. I told him you were out for a few minutes. He said he’d go across to the Local an’ stop in later. Anyway, I did it, I read some poetry.’

‘That’s what comes of secluding yourself in that section.’

‘It was Billy Collins.’

‘An Irishman! A very enthralling fellow, once our poet laureate.’

‘Poetry always scared me,’ she said.

‘It can be scary, all right.’

‘I remember in school we had to memorize a poem about an urn. Somebody wrote an ode on an urn, or maybe it was about an urn with an ode already on it. In my understanding of urns, it is a flowerpot. Why would you write an ode about it?’

‘Beats me,’ he said.

‘But this Billy Collins, he writes like we live.’

‘There you have it.’

‘Although I don’t know about flying around a room.’

‘Sailing,’ he said. ‘Sailing, I believe it was.’

•   •   •

‘WAIT ’TIL YOU HEAR THIS, KAV’NA.’

‘I know, I just got around to reading the Muse. You didn’t tell me you have a hundred and twenty-five votes. And Coot has seventeen! This is fun.’

‘Irene McGraw has a twin sister.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve just talked with her. It’s Kim Dorsay—the film star Irene is said to look like. Remember the limo a few weeks back? She’s here again. In Mitford.’

‘The little girl in the paintings!’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Does Irene know she’s here?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I have chills.’

‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘And I need you to do something right away.’

•   •   •

THE AFTERNOON LIGHT WAS BEHIND the man as he came through the door. Tall, thin, hunched, a kind of Ichabod Crane in silhouette . . .

‘Kavanagh?’

‘Yes. And yourself?’

‘Professor McCurdy.’

McCurdy laid the Wordsworth paperback on the counter. ‘I’m returning your book.’

‘Hastings! Who saved his money!’

‘Hastings McCurdy is my son.’

‘But I meant for him to keep it. It’s a gift—though much used, as you can see. A fine and curious boy, your son.’

‘The margins are littered with references to God.’

‘Well, yes, I am prone to scribbling in margins. I study the books I especially care for. This was a favorite in my seminary days.’

‘Why did you find it necessary to speak of God to him?’

‘I spoke of God?’

‘I find such a reference completely unnecessary in a commercial enterprise, particularly involving a child who can’t discriminate for himself.’

‘I’d be interested to learn what I said to your son.’

‘You said, God bless you. Leading him to question the meaning of such a remark. Should his class come in again, I would ask you to refrain from religious allusion in future.’