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blowing out the windows of the church, snuffing out the candles on the altar. The tornado would sweep through the reception, where the tables were set up so beautifully, and blast the back doors open. Tablecloths, plates, glasses, and silverware would catapult into the air—chairs, gifts, and garlands trailing each other in a bright arc. The thought came on so suddenly that Lydia almost had to pull over to the side of the road. She breathed deeply, slowly recovering as if from an involuntary reaction. All the sadness, even the betrayal that she'd kept to herself, was hitting her at once. She had protected Cy from his angry bosses, even from his own kids, screening them from his disappointments so they would grow up proud of their father. She'd devoted years to her family while Cy had disappeared offstage to put on some new costume for his next performance. She'd listened to his stories, even advised him as he prepared for his wedding. So why, today, was Lydia the one being banished?
    Beyond the airport and across the pale, flat landscape of southeast Michigan, she took the first exit into Ann Arbor. As she headed down Washtenaw toward the University of Michigan campus, she passed the ramshackle house where Davy had lived for three years, red paint peeling off its squat façade. A plaid loveseat sat in the driveway that might have been the same ratty one from Davy's old room. On Hill Street she drove past the co-op where Jessica had lived during her senior year and where Lydia had stayed over when it got too late to drive back home. Nearby was Angell Hall, where she had taken her core assignments as an undergraduate, and the Michigan Union where she and Cy had watched President Kennedy announce the formation of the Peace Corps. She drove by the library stacks, which had been her retreat while Cy had worked nights for building services. Everything Lydia passed on these familiar streets contained a memory.
    Up ahead was the Brown Jug, a greasy spoon where she and her girlfriends often met for breakfast. In 1961, her sophomore year at the university's architecture and design school, she had been sitting in a booth at the Brown Jug when someone walked by, stopped suddenly, and stared at her. He was lithe, with a bristly beard and eyes that looked at her and beyond her at the same time. "You seem familiar," he had said after a moment. "You wouldn't happen to be from Detroit?"
    "Detroit's a big city." Lydia was concentrating on cutting up her French toast. She would always remember that detail because the friend she was having breakfast with, a fellow honors student named Tess, kept signaling her to wipe powdered sugar from her cheek.
    "What part of the city are you from?" he persisted.
    "What part are you from?"
    "East side. I went to Southeastern. How about you?"
    Lydia turned to Tess, whose gestures, compounded by the rare event of a stranger coming up and talking to her, had put Lydia in a flustered state. "What? What's the problem?" she snapped.
    "You've got a spot." Tess pointed to her own face.
    Blushing, Lydia wiped her cheek.
    But the guy with the beard kept talking. "I know I'm going to figure this out. I swear I know you from somewhere."
    Lydia's plain style and scholarly good looks had changed little since ninth grade, when she grew four inches over one snowy winter. She did not like feeling assessed.
    "Oh, I'm Cy, by the way." He offered his hand, seemingly embarrassed at forgetting to introduce himself. He had long, gentle fingers.
    "Lydia." She shook his hand. Her voice sounded more imperious than she'd intended.
    "That's it! Of course! Lydia Warren!" He clapped. "Don't you remember? We were supposed to have an affair!"
    "Excuse me?"
    "Yes. We took a class in seventh grade: Marriage and Family. You got paired with that overdeveloped kid the football coach at Southeastern had been eyeing since grade school. I was matched with Angie Bynum. Remember her? She wore the tightest sweaters in class—not that I