Kate packed Marah’s clothes, making sure she had her pink blanket, her pacifiers, and her beloved Pooh bear. Then she gathered up the formula and bottles and tiny jars of strained fruit and vegetables, and wrote out a feeding and sleeping schedule that would have made an air traffic controller proud.

When she held Marah one last time and kissed her soft cheek, Kate had to hold back tears. It was ridiculous and embarrassing and inevitable, for it didn’t matter that motherhood had kicked the hell out of her and ruined her confidence; it had also swamped her so with love that she was only half a person without her daughter.

Kate stood on the porch of her new beachfront Bainbridge Island house, with her hand tented across her eyes until long after the car had disappeared down the driveway.

Then, back inside, she wandered aimlessly for a few moments, not quite certain of how to be alone anymore.

She tried calling Tully again, left another message.

Finally she found herself in her closet, staring at her prepregnancy clothes, trying to figure out what she had that was sexy and grown-up and would fit her. She’d just finished packing when she heard the door downstairs open and close, heard her husband’s footsteps on the hardwood floor.

She went down to meet him. “Where are we going, Mr. Ryan?”

“You’ll see.” He took her hand and got her overnight bag and closed up the house. Out in his car, the radio was on. Loud, like the old days. Bruce Springsteen was singing, Hey, little girl, is your daddy home . . .

Kate laughed, feeling young again. They drove down to the ferry terminal and onto the waiting boat. Instead of sitting in their car for the passage, as they usually did, they bundled up in coats and hats and stood on the bow with the tourists. It was five o’clock on this cold January evening, and the sky and Sound were a Monet of lavender and pink. In the distance, Seattle sparkled with a million lights.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No, but I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”

She laughed. “I know what we’re going to do.”

As the ferry chugged into port, they returned to their car. Once they were off the boat, Johnny maneuvered through the stop-and-go downtown traffic and pulled up in front of the Inn at the Market, where a liveried doorman opened her door and collected her bags.

Johnny came around for her and took her hand. “We’re already checked in.” To the bellman, he said, “Room 416.”