Ellie laughs. "She argued with me about the ending ofThe Dispossessed. Said Shevek's return felt like avoidance."
"What did you say?"
"I asked her if going home with new knowledge could be revolutionary."
"And?"
"She told me she wanted the ending to cost him something." Ellie shakes her head. "She's twelve. She argues about thematic stakes like she's defending a dissertation. She is ridiculously intelligent for her age."
"She gets that from her mother."
I didn't plan to say it. Ellie goes still across the table.
"Maren loved books," I say. "She read the way Lily reads. Like the author owed her an explanation for every choice. She would have built a whole curriculum around it if she'd had the time."
Ellie holds my look for a moment. Most people rush to say something when you mention your dead wife.
"What's the worst book you've ever recommended to someone?" I say. "Professionally."
She covers her face with one hand. "Oh god.The Celestine Prophecy. A patron asked for a life-changing read and I panicked."
"You panicked."
"She was standing right there and I blanked on every book I've ever read. It was my first week. She came back and told me it changed her marriage."
"For better or worse?"
"She didn't specify and I was too afraid to ask."
The laugh catches me off guard. Mine, not hers. She grins at the sound of it, then laughs too, and the laugh turns into a snort she tries to catch behind her hand. It comes out anyway. Her neck goes pink, the blush climbing from her collar to her jaw, and I can smell the shift in her—embarrassment and amusement and, underneath, want. She can't hide it and I can't ignore it, my grip tightens around the coffee mug.
I keep my hands where they are.
"So where did you study?" she says. Her neck stays pink. "Before the university position."
"Portland State. English lit."
Her mouth opens. "You're kidding. I was Portland State. Class of '05."
"I was class of '03."
"We were in the same department for two years and never crossed paths." She shakes her head, still smiling.
She laughs and I want to kiss her. She's sitting at my kitchen table with archive photographs between us, a blush on her neck and my daughter down the hall. I want to cross the space between us and put my mouth on hers.
But I don't move.
We look at the same photograph, the harbor in 1948, fishing boats in a row. Her hand rests on the edge of the print and mine rests next to it, and when her knuckles brush mine neither of us pulls away.
She's closer than I realized. The curl at the nape of her neck. My reading glasses sit low on my nose.
Two inches. My eyes drop to her mouth.
Lily's door opens.
"Dad? Can I have water?"
We both pull back at the same time.
