It had been one year since Fin’s mother died, one year since coming to New York City to live with Lady. He’d been an orphan for one year. It felt like ten. They went back home to Connecticut on the anniversary of Lydia Hadley’s death, a lovely, gentle Saturday in May. Fin sat in the same seat, in the same little Karmann Ghia convertible, the same Lady beside him at the wheel, darting from lane to lane, honking back at the truck drivers who honked at her, the same Gus in the backseat, his head poking out, his ears pushed back by the wind. Just a different direction. Everything turned around. A turned-around Fin. Lady was always happy when she was driving. “It makes me feel as though I actually have someplace to go,” she once said. She pulled across two lanes and whipped off the thruway at exit 18. “Ice cream for lunch,” Lady said. “Carvel!” They had cones dipped in chocolate, Brown Bonnets. “Who would wear a brown bonnet, though?” Lady said when they were back on the road.
