Annie smiled wanly at the theatrics. “What happened?”

“My character is running from the law—again—only this time they put her on a plane.” Terri shook her head. “Bad news.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“In the soaps, there’s only one thing worse than getting on a plane, and that’s getting in a car. The next thing you hear is sirens . . . and funeral music. If they actually name the flight tomorrow, I’m dead meat.”

“You’ll bounce back.”

“Oh, perfect, make fat jokes.” Terri scooted up the bed and twisted around to sit beside Annie. “So, kiddo, how’s the ever-growing Goodyear blimp?”

Annie glanced down at her stomach. “We’re doing okay.”

“Well, I’ve been coming every Friday for weeks now, and we talk on the phone constantly. I think I’ve been patient as hell.”

“About what?”

Terri looked at her, hard. “About what? Come on.”

Annie sighed. “Nick.”

“What else? I’ve been waiting patiently—and we both know that patience is not one of my virtues—for you to bring his name up, but obviously, you’re not going to. I’m sick of respecting your privacy. Now, spill the beans. Have you called him?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

Annie turned to her best friend. “Come on, Terr.”

“Ah . . . that honor thing. I’ve read about it. We don’t see much of it in Southern California. And none on the soaps. But you are in love with him?”

“I don’t think I want to talk about this.”

“There’s no point lying to an old slut like me. Hell, Annie, I’ve been in love more times than Liz Taylor and I’ve slept with enough men to protect this country in time of war. Now, do you love him?”

“Yes,” she whispered, crossing her arms. It hurt to say the word aloud, and instantly she regretted it. “But I’ll get over it. I have to. Blake is doing his best to put our family back together. Things are . . . rough right now, but they’ll get better.”

Terri gave her a sad smile. “I hope it works that way for you, Annie. But for most of us, when love is gone, it’s gone, and all the pretending and wishing in the world can’t bring it back.”

“Can’t bring what back?” It was Natalie, standing in the doorway with another bowl of popcorn and a bottle of spring water.

“Nothing, honey,” Annie said softly.

Natalie produced a videotape from behind her back. “I rented us a movie.” She popped it in the VCR, then climbed up onto the bed beside Terri.

Terri grabbed a handful of popcorn. “What’s the movie?”

“Same Time, Next Year.”

“That Alan Alda movie?” Terri gave Annie a sharp, knowing look. “I always thought that was a hell of an idea. An affair once a year, I mean. Ellen Burstyn’s husband is probably a real shithead—a workaholic with the moral integrity of an alley cat. He probably fucked around on Ellen and then came crawling back like the worm he is. And because Ellen’s a grade-A sweetie pie, she took him back and tried to pretend that everything was okay. Still, she meets her secret lover for one weekend a year on the wild Oregon coast. Yep, sounds like heaven to me.”

“Shhh,” Natalie said. “It’s starting.”

Annie looked away from Terri. She tried not to feel anything at all, but when the music came on and the credits began to roll, she sank deeper and deeper into the pillows, as if distance could soften the sharp edges of her memories.

Chapter 26

Nick made it through the summer one day at a time. The last thing he did every night was stand by the lake, where Annie’s memory was strongest. Sometimes, the missing of her was so acute, he felt it as a pain in his chest. Those were the nights when he heard the call of the booze, the soothing purr of his own weakness.

But he was making it. For the first time in years, he was actually living life on his own terms. Annie had been right in so many of the things she said to him. He’d gone back to work, and the job had given him a purpose. He was the best policeman he’d ever been. He gave everything to the people under his protection, but when his shift was over, he left the worries behind. He had learned, finally, to accept that there would be failures, and that it was okay. All he could do was try.

Like with Gina. She was still fighting the pull of old patterns and comforting, self-destructive routines. The other kids were often blatantly cruel to her. The “good” kids didn’t want to hang around with a loser, and the “bad” kids spent all their time trying to lure her back into their circle of drugs and truancy, but, like Nick, Gina was holding her own. She’d moved back into her old bedroom and was reforging the bonds of the family she’d so carelessly torn apart. Last month she’d registered for school.

And there was always Izzy, waiting for Nick at the end of the day with a smile and a picture she’d drawn or a song she had learned. They’d become inseparable. Best buddies. He never took a moment or a word for granted.

During the week, he worked from nine to five; the second his shift was over, he picked up Izzy from the Raintree Day Care, and they were off. They spent all their free time together.

Today, he’d gotten off work three hours ago and their nightly ritual had begun. First, dinner on the porch (lasagna and green salads from Vittorio’s), then they quickly washed the dishes together.

Now, Nick sat cross-legged on the cold plank floor, staring down at the multicolored Candy Land game board. There were three little pieces at the starting box, a red, a green, and a blue.

But there are only two of us, Izzy, he’d said when Izzy put the third man down.

That’s Annie, Daddy.

Nick watched with a growing sadness as Izzy stoically rolled for Annie and moved her tiny blue piece from square to square.

“Come here, Izzy,” he said at last, pushing the game away. She crawled across the floor and settled into his lap, hooking her spindly legs around him. He stared down at her. The words congealed in his throat; how could you tell a little girl to stop believing?

“She’s comin’ back, Daddy,” Izzy said in the high-pitched, certain voice of an innocent.

He stroked her hair. “It’s okay to miss her, Sunshine, but you can’t keep thinking that she’s going to come back. She has another life . . . she always did. We were lucky to have her for as long as we did.”

Izzy leaned back into his laced fingers. “You’re wrong, Daddy. She’s comin’back. So, don’t be so sad.”

Sad. Such a little word, no more than a breath; it didn’t begin to describe the ocean of loss he felt at Annie’s absence.

“I love you, Izzy-bear,” he whispered.

She planted a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, too, Daddy.”

He stared down at her, lying in his arms in her pink flannel jammies with the bunny feet, with her black hair still damp and squiggly around her face, and her big brown eyes blinking up at him with expectation.

He knew then, as he’d known so many times before, that no matter what, he’d always love Annie for what she’d given him.

The air was crisp the next morning, chilly with the promise of fall. The flowers were fading now at the end of summer, and autumn colors—orange and green and scarlet—had replaced the bright hues of August. A cloudy sky cast shadows across the cemetery, where acres of grass rolled gently toward a curtain of evergreen trees. It was well cared for, this final resting place for most of Mystic’s citizens.

Nick walked slowly toward the easternmost corner of the cemetery. Izzy was beside him, holding his hand. With each step, he felt his insides tighten, and by the time he reached his destination, his throat was dry and he needed a drink desperately.

He gazed down at the headstone. Kathleen Marie Delacroix. Beloved Wife and Mother.

He sighed. Four words to sum up her life. They were the wrong four words; he’d known it at the time, but then he’d been so twisted with grief that he’d let the small, round-faced funeral director handle everything. And in truth, Nick didn’t know what other words he would have chosen, even now. How could you possibly express the sum of a person’s life in a few words cut into smooth gray stone?

He glanced down at Izzy. “I should have brought you here a long time ago.”

Izzy let go of his hand. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper. Last night, when he’d told her they were going to come here, Izzy had picked up a piece of paper and her crayons, then she’d gone into her room alone. When she emerged, she held a picture of her mom’s favorite flower. Daddy, I’ll give her this. That way she’ll know I was visitin’ her.

He had nodded solemnly.

She walked over to the wrought-iron bench and sat down. Smoothing the paper on her lap, she stared at the headstone. “Daddy said I could talk to you, Mommy. Can you hear me?” She drew in a ragged breath. “I miss you, Mommy.”

Nick bowed his head, thinking of a dozen things at once, and thinking nothing at all. “Heya, Kath.” He waited for her to answer, but, of course, there was nothing except the swaying of the evergreen boughs and the trilling call of a bird.

This place had so little to do with his Kathy. It was why he hadn’t come here before, not since the day they placed her gleaming mahogany casket in a gaping hole in the earth. He couldn’t stand to look at the evenly clipped carpet of grass and know that she was below it, his wife who’d always been afraid of the dark and afraid of being alone. . . .

He reached out, touched the cold headstone with the tip of a finger, tracing the etched canal of her name.

“I came to say good-bye, Kath,” he said softly, closing his eyes against the sudden sting of tears. His voice broke, and he couldn’t speak out loud. I loved you for most of my life, and I know you loved me, too. What . . . what you did was about something else, something I never could understand. I wanted you to know that I forgive us. We did the best we could. . . .

He touched the stone again, felt it warm beneath his fingertips, and for a moment—a heartbeat that winged into eternity—he imagined her beside him, her golden hair streaming in the sunlight, her black eyes crinkled in a smile. It was the day Izzy was born, that was the memory that came to him. Kathy sitting up in the hospital bed, her hair all askew, her skin left pale by exhaustion, her pink flannel nightgown buttoned improperly. She had never looked so lovely, and when she looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms, she’d begun softly to cry. “Isabella,” she’d said, trying the name on her tongue before she looked up at Nick. “Can we call her Isabella?”

As if Nick could deny her anything. “It’s perfect.”

Kathy had continued to look at him, while tears streaked down her cheeks. “You’ll always take care of her, won’t you, Nicky?”

She had known even then the darkness that was coming for her.

But did she know that he loved her, that he had always loved her, and that he always would? She was a part of him, perhaps the biggest part, and sometimes even now, he heard her laughter in the whisper of the wind. Last week, when he’d seen those beautiful white swans across the lake, he stopped and stared and thought, there they are, Kath . . . they’ve come back again. . . .