Dad died from a stroke, or the complications of one. He was with his second wife, Monica, in a New Jersey supermarket, when his legs buckled and he thudded to the floor. The stroke made his left hand involuntarily lock around the shopping cart handle, so his limp body was hanging on with one arm, like a lost sailor grasping a buoy at sea.

  By the time they got him stabilized at the hospital, he couldn’t move his appendages, his speech was slurred, and his eyesight was nearly gone. Monica called me in Morocco and told me the doctor said the next twenty-­four hours were critical. I couldn’t take a chance on getting home too late.

  So I time jumped back eight days and flew to my old hometown and the house where I grew up. And I spent what turned out to be the final week of my father’s life sleeping in my childhood bedroom, taking him out for breakfast every morning, playing a few rounds of golf, and having a final conversation that I’d long wanted to have.

  ✶

  “You feel like getting a root beer, Dad?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  We had just finished eighteen holes and were passing an old drive-­in fast-­food joint named Burt’s. It had been there forever. We ordered through the window: two root beers and four hot dogs. Then I parked in the back, away from the other cars, and with the doors open and the sun beating down, we shoved the doughy rolls into our mouths and sipped noisily on the sodas through straws. Off in the distance someone was mowing grass.

  “We haven’t done this in a long time,” my father said.

  “Not since I was a kid.”

  “You know, once you retire, you have more leisure time than you thought you would.” He paused. “It’s nice of you to take a week off, Alfie. Nice to have you around.”

  “Thanks.”

  I watched him cradle the hot dog. His hands shook slightly. It had been two years since I’d seen him; he’d aged considerably. His close-­cropped hair was white above his eyeglass temples, and the whiskers on his jowls caught the light like sprinkled salt.

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?”

  He took a long, slow bite.

  “Can I ask you something? It’s about Mom.”

  He nodded.

  “Did she ever talk about having a different life? Before she got, you know, religious?”

  He glanced at me but said nothing. He swallowed, wiped some mustard off his lips, then cleared his throat.

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Because just before she died, that day in Africa, she told me that she’d changed.”

  “Changed?”

  “Yeah. She said she’d been a different type of person before, a selfish person who lost her heart and soul. I never remember her that way . . . Do you know what she was talking about?”

  I studied his reaction. I wanted to see if my mother had ever told him about her power, to know if we shared that secret. It felt important. I’m not sure why. When you realize you are about to lose a parent, you suddenly want to know everything, say everything, share every little detail you omitted during the years when you were taking them for granted.

  “Your mother suffered, Alfie,” my father said.

  “Suffered from what?”

  “An illness.” He paused. “A mental illness.”

  I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “She imagined things. She was haunted by events that never happened.”

  “Like what?”

  He crumpled a napkin in his fingers and turned his gaze out the open car door. “Like she’d been a drinker, for one.”

  “A drinker?”

  “Yes. An alcoholic. So bad she’d gone to jail.”

  “Mom went to jail?”

  “That’s what she imagined.”

  “I never saw her drink.”

  “She did when we first met. But then she suddenly stopped. She never had a problem. And God knows she never went to jail.” His voice lowered. “Or met up with other men. Or left the country . . .”

  “Wait. She told you she did all that?”

  “No. I found out after she died.”

  “How?”

  He looked back at me. “Her therapist.”

  “Mom had a therapist?”

  “For years, apparently. When we came back from Africa, the woman got in touch with me, you know, to say she was sorry. She said that Mom had been a brave woman over the years. She was surprised I never knew about their sessions.

  “I asked to meet with her. I begged her to share what Mom had said. She refused at first, because of the ethics, you know? But I said our time together was so short and now that I wouldn’t get any more, I wanted to know everything I could about her.”

  He paused. “That’s when she told me those stories.”

  I was stunned.

  “What did you say, Dad?”

  “I said they had to be lies. But apparently, your mom had shared all these details about the years after you were born. She’d said she’d suffered postpartum depression, that she’d become a terrible alcoholic, that I’d come to visit her in jail, and you had, too, and she felt really badly about that. She’d even run away from us for a stretch.

  “I didn’t know what to tell this therapist, except that whoever Mom was talking about wasn’t the woman I was married to.”

  He shook his head for several seconds, as if stuck staring at something that didn’t make sense. “It was crazy, Alfie.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “I guess it’s only right that you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s OK.”

  “But, Dad?”

  He looked up.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “All right.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. He glanced curiously at the gesture.

  “Mom wasn’t lying. She had a gift. She was able to do things twice in her life. She could go back in time, redo events. All that stuff? It probably did happen, and then she undid it, which is why we don’t remember. You and I only remember the second version.”

  My father snorted, then half smiled. “Are you trying to make me feel better with this silliness?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m trying to tell you the truth. Because I guess she never could. She really did have that power.”

  I paused. “And I have it, too.”

  “To go back in time?”

  “Yes.”

  My father looked away. He started rocking back and forth nervously.

  “Alfie,” he said softly, “are you OK? Your health?”

  I squeezed his shoulder.

  “I’m OK.”

  “I think . . . maybe I didn’t do a very good job bringing you up.”

  “That’s not true, Dad. You did great. You did everything you could. Why would you say that?”

  “Because . . .”

  “What?”

  “Because you’re not well. You’re becoming delusional. Like she was.”

  I dropped my head. Why had I told him? I felt like a cave dweller who finally ventures out into a blizzard, only to realize he was better off in the cave.

  “Dad. Listen.” I lowered my voice. “I want to say how much I love you. And if anyone didn’t do a good job, it was me. I didn’t appreciate all you had to go through. I’m sorry. For everything.”

  His eyes were tearing up.

  “I don’t understand,” he said shakily. “What’s happening here?”

  I forced a smile. “Nothing that will matter.”

  I pulled him close. His cheek rubbed against mine.

  “Twice,” I whispered.

  Instantly, we were back at the golf course parking lot, getting into the car. I turned the ignition and flipped on the radio. A few minutes later, we were cruising past Burt’s.

  “Remember that old place?” my father said, pointing.

  “Yeah. They served root beer.”

  “And terrible hot dogs.”

  “Yeah. Awful hot dogs.”

  My hands gripped the steering wheel.

  “You played good today, Alfie,” my father said.

  “You did, too.”

  “For an old man, you mean?”

  “Yeah. For an old man.”

  He chuckled. I was so grateful for his smile, I nearly cried.

  ✶

  I tell you that story, Boss, because it was the last time I redid anything in my life—­until yesterday. And yesterday couldn’t be helped. I’d been staying away from my gift deliberately, kind of like an addict who swears off his poison. Life has been different in the present tense, I’ll admit that. You pay closer attention to things. You’re more appreciative. More accepting.

  But it wasn’t losing my father that led to this decision.

  It was another woman.

  Nassau

  “Well, OK,” LaPorta mumbled, thumbing the page. “We’re finally talking about yesterday.”

  “What’s that?” Sampson said.

  “This story.”

  “I thought you said it was garbage.”

  “It is, I guess. I don’t know. I think I’m getting to the part where he confesses.”

  “Well, do you want to read or do you want to do your job?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sampson killed the engine.

  “We’re here.”

  LaPorta looked up. He had been so engrossed in the notebook, he didn’t realize they were in the parking lot of The Ocean Club Resort. He stared through the windshield at the blanched-­almond facade, and the guests lounging on their balconies. He was torn. The notebook might help him solve the case. But Gianna Rule was a suspect, given the money she was sent. And every passing minute was a minute when she could slip away.

  “Ahhrrg,” he groaned, pushing his palms against his forehead. Then he dog-­eared the page he was reading and shoved the notebook into his bag.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Five

  The Composition Book

  Things my mother said she loved about me:

  “The way you always tell the truth in the end.”

  So back to Nicolette Pink. You probably think you know where I’m going with her, Boss. What actually happened was more complicated.

  That night in the editing studio was a Friday, and we weren’t shooting anything the next day, so Nicolette and I went back to the hotel and she asked me to join her at the bar downstairs. I stopped in my room to change and found an overnight mail envelope under my door. It was from Gianna. I didn’t open it.

  When I got downstairs, Nicolette had changed, too, into a gray corset top and a short black skirt. We sat near the back and she called over a waiter. She insisted I drink with her.

  “Nobody likes a watcher,” she said, grinning.

  We stayed there for a couple of hours, drinking and talking the whole time. She told me about growing up in a trailer in rural Oklahoma; I told her about living in Africa. She told me about her parents splitting up when she was twelve; I told her about Adeline hiding my mother’s photograph in a closet.

  There was a piano player in the corner and a crowd that shrank as the night went on. Several times, we were interrupted by people who wanted Nicolette’s autograph, which she always obliged, apologizing to me afterward. I was surprised at how polite she was to me. I guess I thought movie stars only wanted to talk about themselves. But she was considerate, and laughed heartily whenever I made a joke.

  We traded sips as we continued our conversation, and I found myself studying how her mouth met the glass, the deep red of her painted lips pressing on the clear rounded edge. I warned myself to knock it off, to stop thinking about how attractive I found her.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “That day in the bank. What made you run to save Jaimie?”

  I hooked my hands together.

  “I’m not sure. It happened so fast.”

  “Were you afraid you might get shot?”

  “I guess. I mean, I hoped I wouldn’t get shot.”

  She chuckled.

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re being modest. Most people don’t ‘hope’ they won’t get shot, then run in front of a gunman to save somebody.”

  She placed her fingers on top of mine.

  “I admire that,” she said.

  I froze.

  “Honestly?” she added. “It’s . . . kind of a turn-­on.”

  “Oh yeah?” I mumbled, because those were the only words that came to mind.

  “Oh yeah,” she said playfully, tapping her fingers lightly on mine. Then she pulled away, lifted her glass, and gulped the rest of her drink. I caught myself glancing at the hollow of her neck. Her slim fingers. Trying to change the subject, I asked if she’d ever been married. I knew she hadn’t. I asked anyhow.

  “No,” she said, looking away. “I mostly meet actors, and it’s not a good idea to put two acting careers under one roof. I know couples like that. It doesn’t work. They say they aren’t competing, but . . .”

  She waved a hand at the waiter and pointed to her glass.

  “. . . they are. It ruins things, you know?”

  She dropped her cheek into her palm and gazed across at me. “Writers are different. I wish I could write. I envy you, working alone, nobody directing you. It’s great, right?”

  “Um, yeah, sure,” I stammered.

  As the piano player was finishing “Night and Day” he hit a bad chord, and I mumbled, “Ooh, that wasn’t good,” probably because her looking at me made me nervous. Then Nicolette said “What wasn’t good?” and I said “That chord” and she said “The piano player?” and I said “Yeah” and she said “Why? Do you play?” and I said “I used to.”

  A minute later, the pianist rose and left for the night. The place was emptying out.

  “Go play something, Alfie,” Nicolette said.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Please? I’d love to hear you. Come on.”

  I hesitated, then rose, thinking OK, maybe it’s best to leave the temptation of this conversation. But Nicolette followed me to the piano, carrying her drink, and to my surprise, she slid in next to me. Her hip pressed against mine and our shoulders touched. I diverted my eyes from her breasts, which were all but spilling out of her top when she leaned forward.

  “Um . . .” I said.

  “Um?”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “I don’t know.” She smiled as if sleepy. “Something happy.”

  Something happy. For some reason, all I could think of was that old Jimmy Durante song “Make Someone Happy” from Sleepless in Seattle, I guess because it had the word happy in it. I started playing.

  “Oooh, I love this one,” Nicolette said. “Can you sing it, Alfie?”

  So I sang. It’s an easy, cute song. When I got to the part about “fame, if you win it, comes and goes in a minute,” she slipped her arm through mine. Then she sang along on the final lines. She knew it word for word.

  “Love is the answer,

  Someone to love is the answer,

  Once you’ve found her

  Build your world around her,

  Make someone happy,

  Make just one someone happy

  And you will be happy, too.”

  When I finished, Nicolette stared at me.

  “Alfie Logan, you are full of surprises.”

  Her arm was still hooked in mine, and she lowered her head onto my shoulder. I instantly flashed on the image of Gianna in our first apartment, and how, sitting at the piano, she asked if I had ever done this with anyone else. It flooded me with guilt.

  “We should go, huh?” I croaked.

  “All right,” she whispered.

  Nicolette rose, rubbing against me, her skirt rising as we made contact before falling gently back onto her thigh. I’m embarrassed to say how excited I was by this woman. Two minutes later we were at the elevator and Nicolette was swaying, humming that song to herself.

  “Make . . . someone happy . . . Make one person happy . . .”

  When we got in, we pressed our respective floors—­hers was the penthouse, I was on eighteen—­and she reached out and intercepted my hand and placed it firmly on her hip. She pressed against me, kissed me hard, and grabbed my belt and began to undo it.

  “Lemme see, lemme see,” she murmured.

  I was dizzy from the drinks, dizzy from the idea, and so aroused that for a moment my muscles tightened and I couldn’t move, I just let her do what she was doing. But there are planks that we walk and planks we jump off, and finally, at the sound of my zipper, I stepped back off that plank and said, “I can’t, Nicolette, I’m married. You know?”

  She pressed her eyes closed and spun away as if dancing. “Right” she said, and then, “Right . . . right, right,” kind of singsongy-­drunk, and then the elevator pinged and the doors opened and I could all but touch the freedom in the air of the eighteenth floor. I backed out fast and blurted, “Thanks-­a-­lot-­see-­you-OK.” As the doors closed, she was straightening her skirt and not even looking at me.

  I staggered to my room as if walking through a wind tunnel. I let myself in. I saw the envelope from Gianna on the bed. I opened it. It was a Valentine’s Day card, with a photo of the two of us inside. I hadn’t even remembered it was Valentine’s Day. I put it down and called our apartment.

  Gianna’s voice was groggy with sleep.

  “Alfie?” she mumbled. “What time is it?”

  “Time to come home,” I said.

  Nassau

  Gianna Rule, dressed in a bra and shorts after a shower, spread her various camera lenses across the hotel bed. She’d already been out yesterday on a day-­long shoot and was planning a few more hours this afternoon. The sea life in the Bahamas was incredible, and she’d photographed some creatures she had never seen before. Rock iguanas, for one. They were an endangered species and the reason she was here, a magazine story on proposed oil drilling that threatened the island’s marine life. The hope was that the beauty of her photographs would inspire opposition.