“Oh, Jesus. It’s fine. Thank you for being so benevolent and generous, thou perfect human.”

“Good. You can keep it as long as you’re here. And if you wanted to move back forever and be Dad’s caregiver twenty-four seven, I’d give it to you.”

“Okay, I’m leaving now.”

“As you do.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. “Juliet, what do you expect me to say? I have a job and an apartment in the city. I have a second career as a painter, as much as you like to laugh at it. I know you’re used to being the important one in the family, but that doesn’t mean I can magically become a nurse and leave the life I built in the city. Dad and Mom are married. This is part of the territory. Would you want Oliver to stick you in a nursing home?”

“Yes! If it made his life better, you’re damn right I would.”

“And would you stick him in one?”

Ha. I had her there. She looked away, conceding defeat, and I got into the car and backed out of the driveway, heading for Noah’s.

Those doctors were wrong. Dad was clearly getting better. They didn’t spend as much time with him as I did. I mean, seriously. When was the last time they’d even seen him?

I was crying, and crying while driving was not safe. I pulled over and let myself bawl a little. Two more strokes? When? Yes, he’d been a little . . . wandery lately, listing off to the left, but . . . but . . . the idea that I’d never have the old Dad back was intolerable.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. My father was getting better, and . . . and I didn’t know what else, but that had to be true. It had to be.

I hadn’t been to Noah’s house since I came back. I knew the address well, though; it was his parents’ old house—Mom had told me years ago that the elder Pelletiers had moved to Ottawa, where Noah’s grandmother lived.

The Pelletier home was in one of Stoningham’s quiet little areas, the houses shaded by big maples whose branches wove together above the street as if the trees were holding hands. The sidewalk was pleasantly uneven from their roots.

I ran a hand through my hair and looked at my face in the rearview mirror. Red eyes, blotchy face. Another deep breath. Seeing Noah would make me feel better. He’d put things in perspective.

As you might expect, since both he and his father were carpenters, Noah’s house was lovely. It was white, with a wide front porch, two stories. It had changed quite a bit since I was here: bigger windows, a new front door, the garage resembling a barn now. There was a baby swing hanging from a branch in the crab apple tree in the front yard.