Realizing this myself, I feel a burning need—and not between my legs. It’s in my chest. The heart sitting there now is too big for just Joy and me. It needs Jack in it, too.

The miles creep, one after another after another. Finally reaching Exit 91, I take the ramp at warp speed, or my modest equivalent thereof, and head for Westerly. It’s nine-thirty, meaning dark enough to steal through yellow lights and roll past stop signs with minimal fear of detection by the town’s finest. Breezing by Pawcatuck, under the railroad bridge, and into downtown Westerly is smooth enough, and the emotional landmarks that come after? Since my heart is already fully involved, they’ve lost their particular punch.

The square is deserted. Accelerating past, I angle up the bluff road. Of the two houses that loom at its crest, only the Aldiss one is lit.

Jack’s is dark and its driveway empty, but that’s the one I turn down. Refusing to be discouraged, I park and, hurrying to the front door, ring the bell. When he doesn’t answer, I ring it again and put my ear to the wood. No footsteps. No whine of a dog. Running around to the back, I rap on the wood, then bang. When neither raises an alarm inside, I try the knob, but the door is locked tight. Gone? Refusing to believe it, I turn to scan the beach, but the only movement there is the shimmer of a light surf, pearlized by the same moon that shows no man and his dog planted in the sand, looking broodingly at the sea.

There are perfectly good explanations, I tell myself. He may be dealing with an emergency at the clinic, or running with Guy on the long beach near the square—or, since I didn’t see his truck when I passed there, at another beach entirely. Maybe he’s at the bowling alley with the police chief again, drowning his disappointment in beer. He’ll be back, I tell myself and, returning to the front of the house, take up position on the steps to wait. Two minutes into that, I try his phone. It goes straight to voicemail.

Naturally, my eye is drawn to the Aldiss lights. When a figure moves past the living room window and stops, I hold my breath. I don’t want Joy running out. Call me a coward. Call me irresponsible. But what I’m doing here isn’t about motherhood. It isn’t about correcting a memory, though so many were proved false this week. Nor do I need the Nikon to save this moment. I’m living it in real time, alone, waiting for a man who has a life of his own and may or may not have been serious about changing it.