the label had begun to unravel, and someone had written a name in blue ink decades earlier.
Thomas Bennett.
My grandfather’s name.
I looked at Claire.
Then I looked at the suit again.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered.
Claire’s smile trembled. For the first time since she had appeared at the end of the aisle, she looked as though she might cry.
“No,” she said softly. “It isn’t.”
I was thirty-four years old. Claire was thirty-one. We had been together for five years, and I had spent most of that time
