“What if we find out she’s married, or dead?”
“What if we find out she’s single and alive?”
“A sad outcome would be worse than not knowing.”
“Is that really true, though?” Remy leaned forward, stacking her forearms on the table. “It sounds like the not-knowing is pretty sad for you.”
The pendulum clock in the hall sounded like a metronome. Ticking.
“I’m scared,” he repeated.
“You’re a brave man, Wendell. You’ve shown that to me a hundred ways.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “We’ll try to find out what happened to her for the sake of closure.” She owed Wendell that much. She owed Ruth Ann, too, a debt she could try to repay by looking after Wendell.
“I’m not sure if we should do that, Remy.”
“Then I’ll be sure for the both of us.” It was highly nuanced and complex forherto think about stepping out from behind her past and her fears. But in Wendell’s case, the need to do so was as clear as sunlight. “What’s Marisol’s last name?”
“Soto.”
“Do you remember her middle name?”
“I remember everything she ever said to me,” he replied simply. “Her middle name was Ramona. Marisol Ramona Soto.”
Remy typed the information into a note on her phone. “Birth date?”
“May fifth, eighty-two years ago.”
“And where were you living when you met?”
“Belfast.” He was referring to Belfast, Maine, about thirty minutes up the coast from where he currently lived in Rockland. “That was where I was born and raised. Her family had moved there four or five years before we met.”
“And her son was named?”
He went on—providing Marisol’s son’s name, her hometown, her parents’ and siblings’ names, her friends’ names. Remy jotted it all down.
“Do you think this might work?” he asked. “Do you think you’ll be able to find her?”
“I have to admit that I’ve spent the past few days trying to locate the identity of a missing person online and have come up empty. Since that situation”—Jonah definitely qualified as asituation—“is demanding most of my attention, I won’t be able to start looking for Marisol just now. When I do start looking for her, I’ll give it my best.”
“I’m worried.”
“That I’ll find her or that I won’t?”
“Both.”
ChapterFive
Remy had told Leigh that she and Jonah had established a routine. The next forty-eight hours proved that truth.
Each night before bed, Jonah asked if she would stay and every night, she said she would. In the middle of the night he’d wake at least once and ask, “Remy?” From her pallet she’d answer, “I’m here.”
She’d bet money that in his usual state he was the type of man who never asked for anyone in the middle of the night. But on this island—not just this physical place but also this island of time surrounded by the sea of his regular life—he was not his usual self. He was injured, mentally and physically.
She fed him three meals plus four pudding cups a day, forced him to consume a great deal of water, and badgered him into reducing his reliance on painkillers and doing his breathing exercises.
Anadult manhad been thrust into her space, which continued to demand enormous adjustments from her. With him in the house, Remy guarded her time, energy, and privacy like a dragon protecting a treasure chest of gold. She and Jonah interacted often, but not more than necessary. And since he no longer required close supervision, she resumed yoga, walking, and meditation. She also returned to work, retreating to her studio for hours each day. When her trusty phone alarm signaled quitting time, she ate dinner with him, then retired to her office to hunt for his identity, voraciously read, or voraciously watch shows. She did her best not to let him stir emotions in her, which was the hardest part of all, because for some maddening reason he had the power to rile her up with a simple sidelong look.
For his part, Jonah staggered to the bathroom for showers and staggered to the deck to sit for long periods. He searched and searched for his old life on Leigh's borrowed laptop. Or he read books from her library or watched movies or sketched.
