Page 62 of When We Believed in Mermaids

She writes back with an abashed emoji.We do what we must.

Thanks, no matter the cause, I reply. I’m in need of distraction too, and I click through the links, starting with the material from theHollywood Reporter, with a short paragraph and a photo of George and Veronica cozying up somewhere. Veronica wears a fur, her lips darkly painted, and George looks utterly smitten.

For a long while, I study his face, thinking about what it must have been like for him to be chosen by a movie star. To find his life turned upside down by not only the opportunity to be an Olympian but also then to fall head over heels in love with a famous woman.

I sip my lukewarm tea. He was married too. That could not have been easy. I click through the various articles, most of them gossipy in nature, more photos, more speculation about the pair.

The last link is to a story about the murder, the morning after. It’s a garish, bold headline with a photo of the mansion and a grim-faced George being led away.Starlet Murder Stuns City, the headline screams, and the article that accompanies it is equally hysterical in tone. Stabbed in her own bedroom, multiple times. Paramour the main suspect.

Which makes sense. Even the details of the bedroom and the multiple stab wounds suggest a jealous lover. And common wisdom says it’s always the spouse.

The computer freezes suddenly, and no amount of fiddling brings it back up. Outside, the storm is taking on fury and power, and I retreat from the doors to the kitchen, where I find myself taking out a cloth bag full of feijoas, a couple of hands of ginger, and a bowl of lemons. I’ve collected a number of beautiful canning jars over the years, and tonight I dig for the Kilner Vintage jars, with their long lines that reflect the light. They’ll make my chutney look jeweled.

The light is mellow over my counter. Settling on a stool with a cutting board and a wickedly sharp Japanese knife, I sense my ghosts crowd around me as I slice each lemon and feijoa with precise care. My father leans on the counter, smoking, a bourbon in his hand. Dylan sits on the floor in tattered jeans, his hand in the dog’s fur. Somewhere is a baby, but sometimes I see her and sometimes I don’t. Maybe she found life when Sarah was born; I don’t know.

My dad rattles the ice in his glass, a big, sturdy man’s man with giant, capable hands and thick black hair on his arms. All his life he wore a gold watch his father had given him before he left Sicily, and he took it off when he cooked, slipping it into the pocket of his shirt. A strip of lighter skin where the watch rested never went away.

I worshipped the very ground he walked upon when I was small. To be granted time in the kitchen with him, I would sweep floors, drag food scraps to the trash, anything. For a long time, he didn’t mind, propping me up on a stool or an overturned box, my body wrapped three times around with a bibbed apron, to teach me what he loved. Cooking. Olives and fresh mozzarella, which we made the old way; squid in its own ink; and simple fresh pastas.

It is because of my father that I slice with such exactitude. My chutneys and jams are perfection. I miss him. I miss Kit. I miss Dylan. Sometimes I even miss my mother.

When I fled France on a stolen passport, I knew only that I had to change my life. I didn’t stop to consider that I’d be lying forever, that I would be the only person who would know my secrets.

It’s so very lonely. Sarah will never know my real story or meet her aunt, never even know where I’m really from. I’ve told everyone I’m from British Columbia and learned to surf at Tofino, the only child of parents who died in a terrible car accident.

A splatter of rain slams into the window, and I jump a foot, the knife slashing a small cut on the top of my thumb. Sucking on it, I turn to go look for a Band-Aid, and Simon is coming into the room, his hair tousled because he never keeps his hands out of it. I smooth it down fondly with my free hand and notice he has circles under his eyes. “Are you feeling all right?”

He catches my hand, plants a kiss on my wrist, and drops it so he can open the fridge and grab a ginger beer. “Just some work troubles, love, nothing to worry yourself about.”

“Maybe you should go ahead and pat me on the head while you’re at the pretty-little-lady routine.”

He gives me a half smile. “I’d rather pat your ass,” he says, and does. Then he bends in and hooks his chin over my shoulder. “We’re having trouble with some of the instructors again, and a man had a heart attack and died last week whilst cycling. And it looks like parceling out the land around Sapphire House might be a right pain in the arse.”

I listen, feeling his cheek against my neck, his hair on my temple, and lift a hand to his face. “That’s a lot.”

“And my wife has been acting a bit weird lately.”

“Weird?”

“Preoccupied. Always thinking of something else.” He kisses my shoulder. “I’m afraid she’s having an affair.”

“What?” I whip around. “Is that what’s on your mind?”

His shoulders move very slightly. Yes/no. “You’ve been weird a lot.”

“Oh, Simon,” I whisper, and lean into him. My thumb is still bleeding, and I can’t go all the way to the medicine cabinet for a Band-Aid when he’s just revealed himself with such vulnerability. “Wait.” I swerve to the right and grab a cup towel, wrapping my thumb tightly so I can put my hands on him. Look into his eyes. With my free hand, I lightly trace the edge of that high, hard cheekbone, touch his wide, beautiful mouth. “I would never, ever cheat on you. Don’t you know that?”

His gray eyes search mine. “Most of the time.”

“I love you so much it’s like all the other men in the world are another species. Rats or sharks or something.”

He drops his head to my forehead. “Good. You’re the best thing in my life.”

I close my eyes and breathe in the moment, the scent of his skin and the feel of his big, solid body around me. The perfection ofnow. Feeling even more terror, more fear, a sense of impending, inescapable doom.

As if he senses it, he moves his hands gently on my sides. “Is something else the matter?”

A whirl of images moves over the screen of my eyelids—Dylan so battered after the accident, my mother dancing with a movie star on the patio, the photo of Kit on the internet with her cat on her shoulder. “Just ghosts,” I say, the most truthful thing I can come up with.