“I knew you’d love it here. You love the mountains.” He descended the stairs to the lower deck. She heard the unspoken, I know what you like. I know you. His bark-colored hair was too long and it rode the waves of the breeze as he came near her. It sent shivers of more than the coming wind down her legs. Her body moved, swayed to the old rhythm: the dance begun without the touch. She looked for Phil, for Eliza—for some hope of being saved from this uncontrollable movement.

“Where are the kids?” she asked. “And where is my beer?” Step one, move two in the dance.

Nick laughed, full, head back. Amy’s stomach rolled with the familiar sound of joy.

“The kids are out on the lake and . . . voilà.” He pulled an Amstel Light from the pocket of his flannel shirt. “Yours.”

“Thank you, sir.” She smiled; her lips shook.

“Hmm. You don’t look like you mean that.”

Amy damned her quivering smile.

“I’m fine. I just got a little carsick on the way here . . . need some fresh air.”

“I’m sure you do, darlin’.”

“I’m sure I do.”

She was lost . . . then found as she began to move in the familiar cadence of their words and speech patterns.

“It really is good to see you, Amy. I’m glad you came this weekend.”

“Me, too.” She meant it. Right then, right there, she meant it. All the years filled with wondering, and the anguish of not knowing what happened to him, momentarily disappeared. Silence rolled between them and it was all right. There was time to say whatever waited out there.

They stared out at the lake. A lone sailboat dipped and swayed in a beautiful water-waltz. Then it dipped too far, flipped over, tipping two kids in life jackets into the lake. Laughter spilled and echoed across the lake, bounced up against the pilings of the dock.

“Cute kids,” Amy said.

“They’re ours.”

“Ours?” She was dizzy.

“Jack and Lizzy.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Of course. Yes . . .”

“You okay?”

“Oh, yes.”

Nick reached to touch the side of her face, lift her chin so she looked directly in his eyes. “Amy . . .”

Whatever he wanted to say was cut short by the shrill staccato of Eliza’s call from the top deck.

“Amy, honey. Which of these grocery bags needs to go in the fridge?”

Her voice, sharp with quills at Amy’s inadequacy, slid down the stairs. The beer was gone and its warmth in Amy’s blood sent an uncommon smart-ass comment to her mouth.