“Vanilla is fine,” I said, peeling back the paper tab with my thumb.

We ate three bites without speaking.

The sound of the band inside the ballroom was muffled through the double-pane glass, reduced to a faint thrum of brass and bass drum.

“I found something else in the cedar chest,” Clare said quietly.

She pulled a folded sheet of cream paper from the inner pocket of her jacket.

“Underneath the station wagon photograph.”

I stopped my wooden spoon halfway to my mouth.