“Well, that’s the funny part. I never even went to work for them. I met Nick on the trip to Costa Rica and we fell madly in love and”—she glanced at Amy—“as you said, the rest is history. So the trip was worth it.”

Amy couldn’t help it: she wanted to avoid Nick, but she looked directly at him. He stared at the table; then instead of turning to his wife, he looked across the table at Amy. Her blood was warm as it filled her cheeks and neck.

“What did you do after Costa Rica?” Phil asked Nick.

“Well . . .” Eliza began for him. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry,” she said from behind her palm, “bad habit.”

“I did—still do land-use planning, protected-area development, wildlife utilization and other boring things,” Nick said.

“That’s not boring,” Amy said. “It sounds—”

“Interesting.” Phil finished for her. “Did you stay in Costa Rica?”

“No.” Nick turned to his son. “You kids wanna clear the table for us?”

“Sure, Dad.” Alex stood. “Thanks, Mom. It was great.”

The four kids loaded up their arms with dishes and empty serving bowls, then walked to the kitchen, talking about a Scrabble game in which they’d beat their parents by a million points.

“Where did you go after Costa Rica?” Amy asked, before she could decide whether she really wanted to know.

She could have said what she’d once known—what Nick had wanted to do, what they had wanted to do—but she had no idea of the valid answer now. She wanted to stand up, walk away, but how could she when her legs were made of nothing more than the blue-black air outside the French doors? She had as much command over her body as she did over the wind and water of the lake. She wanted to hear his answer and she wanted to scream against it.

Nick looked down the table at her. “We moved to Maine.”

“Oh.” She shifted her eyes away from his copper stare.

He stood, began to walk away. She was embarrassed to ask again—where in Maine? Why?

“Men, I swear they give only as much information as the CIA,” Eliza said. “We moved to Maine because Nick got a job with one of the most prestigious timber firms in the U.S. and he was in charge of all their—”

“Eliza.” Nick turned around. “They do not want to hear about this.”

“Sure we do,” Phil said with the strained voice he used after he’d been sick and was trying to pretend he was already well.

“So,” Eliza said, “anyone want coffee?” She leaned across the table. Her eyes looked uneven, like a child had stuck Mrs. Potato Head with two different eyes. But maybe it was just an effect of the wine.

“I’d love some,” Amy said.