All those weekends Greg spent at the warehouse. All those spa trips Brenda took. They weren’t working or resting. They were together at my mother’s cottage, sitting on my father’s porch swing, using my family’s memories to build their own secret world.

I carefully put the deed and the blue logbook into my large leather purse. I took the spare set of keys that was resting at the bottom of the safe-deposit box. I walked out of the vault, nodded calmly to the bank girl, and walked to my car.

I didn’t drive back to our house. I headed north, toward Grand Haven. The drive took two hours, and I didn’t turn on the radio once. I just listened to the hum of the tires on the highway.

When I pulled down the gravel driveway, the blue pine trees looked exactly the same as they had when I was a girl. The cottage was freshly painted, and there was a brand new charcoal grill on the deck. A pair of Brenda’s gardening clogs sat near the back door.

I parked my old Buick behind the cabin, out of sight from the road. I used the keys from the bank box to open the front door. The lock turned smoothly.

Inside, the cabin smelled of cedar and lavender soap. On the mantel, there was a framed photograph of Greg and Brenda standing on the beach, laughing, with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. They looked happy. They looked like a couple.

I sat down in the rocking chair by the window and waited.

According to the blue logbook, today was May 15. The last entry, written in Greg’s neat hand, read: “May 15 – Spring opener. Bring wine.”

Around five o’clock in the afternoon, I heard the sound of Greg’s pickup truck pulling down the gravel driveway.

The engine cut off. I heard their voices before they even reached the door. They were laughing.

“Did you bring the key?” Brenda asked, her voice clear and bright through the screen door.

“It’s right here,” Greg laughed.

The door opened, and they walked in, carrying grocery bags and a cooler.

They both stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me sitting in the rocking chair. The laughter died instantly. Brenda dropped her canvas bag, and a bottle of white wine rolled across the pine floor, clinking against the hearth.

“Clara?” Greg stammered, his face losing all of its color. “What are you doing here?”

I didn’t get up. I sat there, holding the blue logbook in my lap. I tapped my fingers on the brass clasp.

“The rent was due on safe-deposit box 218,” I said, my voice completely flat and calm. “They sent the bill to our house. You really should have updated the billing address, Greg.”

Brenda looked at Greg, her eyes wide with terror. She tried to take a step backward, toward the door.