I lay down, the boards warm and strong under my back, soothing the ache I didn’t realize I had till now. I’d been doing a lot of heavy work, packing up my apartment, helping Dad get in and out of bed, moving furniture around their house to make it more accessible. Right now he was using a walker, and they had a lot of furniture that got in the way. My mother loved antiques, and it seemed like they all weighed three times what modern stuff did.

I hadn’t been back in Stoningham for more than two days in a row in eons. The sound of the river, the distant slapping of the waves against the shore, the shrill cries of the gulls were comforting—sounds I hadn’t realized I’d missed till now—and the sun was warm, even if the air was cool.

A few tears slipped out of my eyes and into my hair. I thought I’d cried myself out over my father’s stroke, but apparently, I hadn’t.

He’d get better. I had to believe that.

“Sadie?”

I jolted into a sitting position, my heart jackrabbiting.

Of course I’d known I’d run into him. Somehow, I just hadn’t prepared myself for it.

“Noah.” I blinked, then shielded my eyes from the sun. It took a minute to see him clearly.

He had a baby in one of those front-pack carriers.

A baby.

The fabric of the carrier blocked all but the baby’s black hair on top, and tiny feet clad in little blue socks on the bottom.

A baby. A baby who, I imagined, looked a lot like the man carrying him. My speeding heart dropped to my stomach.

“I was really sorry to hear about your dad,” Noah said.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I tried to smile. “Thank you. Thanks for the card.” He’d sent one when Dad was still at UConn.

“How’s he doing?”

“Um . . . he’s doing okay. Slow going.” The little blue feet kicked, and I remembered to blink.

“Heard you’re back to help out.”

“Yeah.” I paused. “Is that . . . your baby?”

I wanted him to laugh and say, “God, no, it’s my sister’s,” but of course he didn’t have a sister. He could’ve been babysitting for a friend, and—

“Yes. This is my son. Marcus.” He looked down at the little black head and smoothed the unruly hair with undeniable tenderness. “Sixteen weeks old.”

Jesus God in heaven.

Now I was blinking too fast. Do not cry, Sadie. Don’t you dare cry. “Um, wow! A son! Wow! Congratulations. I didn’t . . . no one told me . . . Congratulations! Are you, uh, married?”

He leaned against the railing of the footbridge, his face losing expression. “No. Michaela Watkins is the mom. We’re coparents.”

“Mickey Watkins?”

“Yeah.”

I swallowed. Okay. Mickey Watkins had been our classmate from third or fourth grade on. And she was gay.