Page 89 of The Pansy Paradox
Then he freezes. Shock plays across his face, although he schools his expression immediately. He turns the album so I can see the photo. It’s a couples dance. Daniel is trying to maneuver me and all my ruffles around the floor. No easy task; there were ruffles for days.
In the background, the chaperones have congregated, my mother included. Next to her is a man. They’re in animated conversation. My mother’s head is tipped back as if he’s just said something enormously funny. He’s leaning in close, a hand on her shoulder. And while I’ve never met him, I know who he is.
I lift my gaze to Henry’s. He looks as befuddled as I feel.
“Can you explain why my father is at your prom?”
Chapter 35
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Wednesday, July 12
Hours pass. Or maybe it’s simply several excruciating minutes with neither of us speaking. I don’t have an answer or even words. It’s clear that Henry doesn’t either.
On the surface, there’s nothing untoward about Harry Darnelle (divorced) visiting Rose Little (widowed). Considering Henry’s obsession with my prom? There may be something crucial we should consider.
“Did you ever meet my father?” he asks.
I give my head a shake. “I never made it home that night, so?—”
Oh, and there it is. The schoolmaster eyebrow. Despite everything, I burst out laughing.
“Not like that. Every year, King’s End throws an after-prom party. Guy and Milo host it in the community center. The reasoning goes that if everyone is snacking and playing games, they can’t be sneaking off to drink or do whatever.”
“Especially the whatever,” Henry says, but he’s laughing now, too.
I scan the room, taking in all the photographs and files. The memory box has been a bit of a disappointment, unless, somehow, we were supposed to find this particular picture. I think of Henry’s obsessive page-turning. The man has a knack for finding things. The Sight does run in his family, and I wonder if this might be a variation.
“Do you think they left clues for us?” I wave a hand, indicating the mess. “Is that why your father was here?”
“Possibly.” He picks up the other photograph, the one of his father and my mother in the convertible. “Although I’m not sure it was the only reason for his visit.”
The note of sadness in his voice makes my heart clench. Henry’s earlier words come back to me: He was a solitary man. That gulf opens. I can almost taste the undercurrent of abject loneliness.
But then Henry rallies. This, I suspect, is something Henry Darnelle always does.
“Let’s take a couple of boxes back with us,” he says. “We can sort through them after dinner and then come back for more in the morning.”
We both start gathering up papers and files and photographs. I secure the memory box. After all, memories are precious. I might as well keep them close, or closer, as the case may be. I pause when I find an automobile title.
I hold it out to Henry. “Something else that belonged to your father.”
His brow is furrowed in thought, and he doesn’t even glance at what’s in my hand. “I’ve seen this name before,” he mutters.
I raise up on tiptoes to peer at the paper he’s scrutinizing. My birth certificate. I have a copy in the file cabinet at home. Is it odd that Adele should have one, too? She was always my mother’s backup, so perhaps not.
“That’s because it’s me,” I say.
His gaze meets mine over the certificate, amusement lighting his eyes. “Well, yes. And happy early birthday, by the way. But I meant your father, Maximilian Monroe.”
“My Enclave records?”
“Your father isn’t listed.”
“Why?”
