“Wouldn’t miss it.”
She runs inside. Jenna followswithout saying goodbye, which I’ve learned is her version of goodbye.
Emma stays on the steps.
“Paul.”
“Yeah.”
“You brought cookies.”
“The marina store had them on sale.”
“You brought a chair. And cookies. And sat on the dock for two hours listening to a fifth-grader read a Newbery Medal winner.”
“She’s a good reader.”
Emma smiles and steps down to the dock. She walks toward me in the dark, the lantern behind her, her face half-lit and half-shadow.
She stops close. Close enough that I can smell her strawberry shampoo again, that if I reached out, I could touch her.
She puts her hand on my chest, right over my heart, and she holds it there.
“Goodnight, Paul.”
“Night, Emma.”
She keeps her hand there for three more seconds. Then she pulls it back, turns, and walks up the steps to her houseboat. The screen door closes behind her, and the fairy lights glow.
I stand on the dock with my folded chair and myempty cookie bag and her handprint still burning through my shirt. Holly would have loved tonight. Every single second of it.
I go to bed without setting an alarm. I know I’ll wake up early anyway, because there’s a dock that needs me and a houseboat next door full of people who’ve started to feel like mine.
The water rocks my boat. The stars turn. Somewhere in the harbor, a pelican settles in for the night.
So do I.
TWENTY-ONE
EMMA
Matt’s flying in this morning.
I know this because Aidan has been counting down since he woke up. “Is it time yet, Mom?” Then, over cereal: “How much longer?” Then, from the bathroom with his toothbrush in his mouth: “Do you think he’ll bring presents?”
Millie is quieter about the whole thing. She put on her favorite dress—the blue one with the daisies—without explaining why. Brushed her hair twice. She’s on the houseboat steps with a book open on her lap, but the pages haven’t moved in twenty minutes.
Jenna has her earbuds in. The volume is louder than usual, like she’s constructing a fortress out of bass and melody. She hasn’t mentioned her fatheronce this morning. She’s sixteen. She remembers more than the younger two.
I’m in the galley scrolling through old photos on my camera—a nervous habit I picked up during the divorce. When I don’t know what to do with my feelings, I look at other people’s happiest moments. Weddings, mostly. Couples who figured it out.
Paul is on the dock.
I can see him through the porthole, working on a section of railing near slip four. He’s been out there since dawn, which isn’t unusual. What’s unusual is that he hasn’t come by. No knock on the hull. No coffee delivery. No quiet “morning” through the screen door. He’s giving me space, and I understand why, and I hate that I understand why.
“Mom.” Aidan appears in the galley doorway. “Three hours and six minutes. Can I wear my shark tooth necklace? The one Olson found?”
“Sure, bud.”
