Thank you to Mel Jolly, for always remembering what I forget and knowing what I don’t, and for being a lovely person in addition to all that. Thanks to my funny, smart, hardworking intern, Madison Terrill, for her innovation and insight these past two summers.

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I had no idea what this book was about until I slipped off to Cape Cod in the cold winter and hid for a month, just me, my laptop and my good dog. Thanks to the owner who rented her beautiful house to me; to Luther, the most loyal and sweetest dog, who kept me company and got me outside for walks every day; to Ivan of the Red Sox hat and gold tooth, who helped save a dolphin with me that blustery, cold day, and to the marine wildlife rescuers who actually knew what they were doing, and again to Ivan for driving Luther and me home, even though I was sopping wet and covered in sand.

— —

Thanks and love to my sister, Hilary Higgins Murray, who listens so well and showed me how to fix all the problems with one word—amputate. Who knew? She did!

To Laura Francis, my town’s first selectman, for helping me understand just how much there is to do in a small town;

To the folks at Gaylord Specialty Hospital, for the information they provided on stroke and brain injury;

To Stacia Bjarnason, for her time, insight, friendship and laughter;

To Jackie Decker, sister of my heart, for her insider information about painting and art;

To Terence Keenan, the love of my life and my best friend, all in one rather adorable package;

To Flannery and Declan, who are such remarkable, wonderful people and fill my heart with love every single day;

And thank you, readers, for the gift of your time.

CHAPTER ONE

Sadie

You’re engaged? Oh! Uh . . . huzzah!”

Yes. I had just said huzzah.

You know what? I couldn’t blame myself. Another engagement among the teachers of St. Catherine’s Catholic Elementary School in the Bronx. The fifth this year, and yes, I was counting.

I couldn’t look away from the diamond blinding me from the finger of Bridget Ennis. The stone was the size of a bumblebee, and my hypnotized eyes followed her hand as she waved it in excitement, telling the rest of us teachers—six women, one man—about how romantic, how unexpected, how thrilling it had been.

I had nothing against Bridget. I even liked her. I’d mentored her, because this was her first year teaching. She was twenty-three as of last week; I was ancient at thirty-two (or so it felt in teacher years). It had been raining diamond rings, and despite my having had bubbly hopes on my own last birthday, the fourth finger of my left hand remained buck naked.