Thomas looks down at his left hand, as if surprised to see the ring there. “Well, yes. I suppose I should take it off. It’s just…” He twists the gold ring off his finger and rests it in the palm of his hand. “It’s sentimental to me,” Thomas says, twirling the ring around. “We had it engraved with our kids’ initials, and I guess I thought that taking it off would be erasing my wife’s memory, and I don’t want to do that.”
Looking at his hand, I wonder what the palm reader from the other night would see. Would she see a line for Rose?
He shows me where the initials are engraved on the inside of the band.
“That’s beautiful,” I say. “We lost my Great-Aunt Lottie a year ago. I love it here in part because everything reminds me of her.”
“I’m sorry,” he says sadly, both of us aware of how futile and small the sentiment is compared to the insurmountable fact of grief. “She was a great woman.”
“You knew her? I mean, I guess that makes sense. She must have been around the summer you met my mom.”
“Only briefly,” he says. “But I always admired her.”
“It’s strange because logically I know she was older. I know she was never going to live forever, but knowing that still didn’t prepare me for the reality, you know?” Thomas nods. “Have you ever heard of the lifeboat theory?”
He shakes his head again.
“Essentially, it’s the few people who are so essential to your life that you would need them on your hypothetical lifeboat. Even though I knew on an abstract level that we would lose Lottie someday, she was on my lifeboat. She was essential to me. Without her, I feel like I’m drowning.”
I’m not sure why I’m telling this to someone who is a practical stranger, but Thomas has a reassuring presence, a steadiness and seriousness that make it easy to confide in him.
He pats me on the shoulder. “I understand,” he says. “And I really am sorry.”
We continue walking in silence for a moment, down the path. There’s a historic home at the end that’s been left abandoned. It’s dilapidated, falling into itself. Everyone calls it the haunted house. The old rumor is that it was passed down in a family lineage until a rift split the remaining siblings apart. No one could decide who got to keep it, so it sat unused until it became decrepit. As a kid, I would hurry my bike past it, scared to look into the windows lest I see some phantom staring back at me.
I know Henry’s house is coming up soon, too. The lot is so large it looks more like a military base than a home. There’s a man-madepond meticulously maintained by the landscapers to look effortless. “The grounds,” as they call it, must employ a team of thirty just to keep it looking natural, untouched. It’s only a few doors down from here. He’s the real ghost I should be afraid of. I answered his text last night.
Are you still engaged?I asked.
Yes, he sent back after a few minutes.
Then what do we have to talk about?
I saw the “…” of him typing before it disappeared. He still hasn’t responded.
“So, what’s next?” I ask Thomas now. “I mean, now that you’re here. What do you want?”
“Honestly?” he says. “I’m not sure. I guess I wanted to check with you. Do you think Rose is happy? Do you think it’s best if I leave?”
I consider the question. I know Rose is angry with him. I know she has resentments and regrets about the past, but does that mean she truly wishes he would leave? She said so the other night at the fundraiser, but I can’t help but think that was her hurt speaking.
Here is her past love, miraculously appearing at our front door. Is that not something worth pursuing? Is that not something I would dream of? Henry returning, knocking on the door of the cottage…
Maybe Thomas is someone Rose needs on her lifeboat.
“Why did you fall in love with her?” I ask, testing him.
We stop to face each other. To our right, I can see the high hedges of Henry’s parents’ lawn: the wicker lawn chairs, the purple hydrangeas, the two-story wraparound porch we used to sit on and watch the sunset.
“Because…” He pauses to think. “Because she is selfless and smart. She’s clever but never uses that cleverness against you. She’s patient with everyone, even her father and sister. She’s… she’s good. I trust both her mind and her heart. She made me a better man.” Helooks toward the water. “Or, at least she used to be all of those things. I suppose I don’t know her anymore.”
“She still is,” I rush to say. “She still has all of those amazing qualities and more, I promise.”
His phone is in his front pocket and when it lights up with an incoming text, I sneak a peek at his lock screen. It’s a photo of what I assume must be his children on a rocky beach in Maine, all teeth and crinkled eyes. He seems like a good dad, and I know that good dads aren’t necessarily a given in this world.
For the first time, I really examine his face. It’s a nice face with neat, orderly lines: a nose with a clean, even slope and two straight eyebrows like em dashes. He reminds me of a character in an old movie, someone who might say something like, “Ma’am, you’re going to have to trust me.”
I decide in that moment to do just that.
