13
Scarlett wondered if Michael’s presumed mistress had been at the funeral. It was Scarlett’s triumph, though, that she had been the wife behind the dark curtains, and had stood by the casket as it lowered into the hole they dug. Her family had taken pictures, and she had looked not so sad as she should have, but stunned with less than grief and more like regret at the words not said as he roared away on the Honda motorcycle to a mysterious destination or assignation.
Then in the yellow house they shared at the time of Michael’s death, and here in the blue house with the leaning porch, the flat roof, and the red twigged hedge, Michael’s son was joined by the real mystery of a life that might have been, an annulment of all that had actually happened, and a dream that became fact for the
