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He’d already made himself believe in her once—and look how that had turned out.

But life without her would be empty.

Life without her wouldn’t be a life.

It would be waiting for a miracle. The miracle he’d had in his arms but hadn’t had the courage to believe in.

Loving was being open to heartbreak and suffering like that. Loving was risk. Happiness was risk.

He would never have complete assurance in another human being—Owen, Amy, Bruce, or even himself.

He was betraying himself right now by sticking to his old habits and beliefs. If he was truthful to himself, there was nothing he wanted more than to forgive Amy and beg her to stay with him forever.

He’d give her all the freedom she wanted. He’d make sure she felt safe. He’d worship her every day and ask nothing in return.

“Aye,” Craig said. “I very much will regret it. In fact, I already am.”

Chapter 36

Thornberry Hill Farm, North Carolina, February 2021

The house smelled old. Old carpet, old wood, old memories. The familiar pale-green walls and kitchen cabinets; the dark-wood furniture; the dingy lampshades; the faded landscape paintings of mountains, fields, and lakes. The whole interior looked faded, as though Amy was looking through a sepia filter. The floor planks sank and squeaked a little as she stepped on them.

Amy took a deep breath, preparing herself. She counted to four, gathering her strength, and finally, after more than twenty years, looked into her father’s eyes.

An old man stood before her, hunched, wrinkled, and weathered. She was taller than him now. Like the house, he looked faded, washed out. Sharp pain pierced her chest.

“Amy,” he said, his pale-blue eyes watering.

“Hi, Dad,” she said.

Jenny walked past Amy into the kitchen. “Hi, Dad, I’ll boil some water for tea.”

“Yeah,” he said, distracted. “Come in, Amy, please.”

He gestured into the kitchen and Amy nodded and walked in. She sat at the round table they’d had many dinners at. The memory of her mom, bustling about making food flashed through her mind. Everything looked smaller now. Everything looked surreal. Like she were in a dream but still didn’t know if it would turn out to be a nightmare.

Dad took out the cups and a box of tea bags, his hands shaking.

They settled at the table with their teacups. Silence hung.

“How are you, Amy?” Dad said, his voice soft.

“I’m good. I’m sure you know about search and rescue and Vermont and all that from Jenny.”

“I do. I do. Good for you.”

This felt weird. Like stepping on eggshells. As if every word was heavy with meaning, and every change in intonation might break this temporary truce and reveal the old aches and heartbreaks.

“And you, Dad?”

“Holding up, holding up. Rented the fields out—I can’t do the farm work no more.”

Amy wondered if he’d also rented out the barn, or if it still stood empty and abandoned.

They lapsed into silence.

Jenny stood up. “I’ll go see if the bedrooms upstairs need any cleaning,” she said.