He chuckled. He hadn’t been called a kid since, well, since he was a kid. Hell, he was pushing forty. Though to them, he must seem like a newborn. They couldn’t be younger than ninety, which made their jaunts in the kayaks all the more remarkable.

One good thing talking to them was doing was bleeding the anger from his system. Andrew felt the tension in his shoulders and jaw start to ease.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, knowing he was not going to get himself a life vest.

“How do you like the house?” Henry asked.

“It’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful up here. So peaceful.”

“Where you from?”

“New Jersey.”

“The Garden State,” Ida exclaimed. “Do you have a garden?”

“I tried growing tomatoes a couple of times. My wife and I have black thumbs.”

Ida clucked at him. “There are no black thumbs. It’s just a matter of chemistry and attention.”

“Ida grows world-class rose bushes. People come from miles to see them. We used to host a party every year in our garden, but parties are a little much for us these days. We’re content to let people wander the front yard and admire them.”

They talked for several minutes, Henry and Ida asking him questions about his job, if he had a wife (Oh, where is your Kate? The poor dear. You please tell her we said hello and can’t wait to meet her when she’s feeling better), what made him come to Maine, how long were they staying, and so on.

He sat on the end of the dock so he wasn’t standing over them like a benevolent giant. They might be wrinklies on the outside, but there was still a spark of vitality to them. It warmed his heart to see, but was also painful. He realized this would never be him and Kate. If the doctors were right, Kate would achieve young Andrew’s wish and never become a wrinklie.

“Where do you live?” Andrew asked.

Henry pointed behind them. “A ways back. There aren’t many houses on this lake, and all of us are full-timers. The winters are rough, but we have people to help with the shoveling and plowing. These days, I’m happy to shovel my spoon into my mouth without spilling half of it on my lap. Your cottage is the only rental. It used to belong to Fred Windham.”

Ida interjected, “No, Fred owned it before. Remember? He was Abe’s son, but he didn’t like the cold. Or our wet springs for that matter. He sold it to that couple from outside Boston. What were their names?”