Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly light. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Why would Shari tell Michelle or anyone outside the family a name? Why would Michelle ask? In 1965, Sheila McCloskey loved to watch two subjects in particular with binoculars: birds and neighbors. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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