“Amy . . .” His eyes were wet. He leaned close to her ear. “You’re making this harder.”

“Don’t. You can’t. Something bad. You won’t come back. I can’t breathe. Don’t.”

“I’ll be fine. I promise. This is not an ending. It’s just the beginning of our life.”

“Nick, there’s something . . . wrong.”

“You’re scared.”

“Yes.” He would stay now. He knew she was scared. He would stay.

“I’ve never left before. That’s all it is, Amy.”

“That’s not it. Something . . . something else.” She grabbed at the silver cross that dangled from a thin chain around her neck. “Don’t.”

The final boarding call came through the waiting room like an executioner calling her name.

“Don’t.” People behind Nick stared at her: the Indian woman clutched a child, the flight attendant pursed her lips, an obese man wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“I love you.” Nick kissed her lips, kissed her tears, kissed her cheeks. Then he held her face in both hands. “Close your eyes.” He kissed each eyelid. “Keep your eyes shut until I’m gone.”

She did. She didn’t want to open them again until the gray metal door opened in three months and Nick walked out with stories of the rain forest, a three-month beard and his arms around her.

But he never walked back through the door and the last Amy Malone ever felt of Nick Lowry was his lips on her eyelids as he kissed her one more time and promised to come back to her.

Nick threw the cooler into the trunk of the Mercedes and slammed down the lid. For good measure, he kicked the tire. He glanced over his shoulder at his wife as she walked toward the car, chatting with an old friend she had run into at the football game. If she knew who Amy really was, she would probably hurl herself to the ground.

When Eliza had told him, in calm tones, whom his daughter was dating, whom he would see today, he’d done a gut-check and realized it was okay. Eliza obviously hadn’t made the connection with Amy’s married name. Amy and Eliza had never met and, more than twenty years later, all Amy would be to Eliza was the old girlfriend. Although he’d never tried to track her down, he knew her married name: Amy Reynolds. He hadn’t been positive it was her, but the coincidences were too many to ignore, and he was right. He’d known it was her before she turned around—the way she stood, the way her hair fell across her shoulders, the way his heart flipped inside his chest.