No, that was not true. Phil did get it. How could he possibly be married to her, love her, take care of her the way he did if he didn’t get it? Because he never listens to you—that’s why. Dizziness enveloped her.

Jack stood up and stretched. “I’m out of here. I’m wiped. Mom—you do a great job saving all those old houses.” He leaned down and kissed Amy on the cheek. “Good night, everyone.”

A chorus of “Good night, Jack” rang across thoughts that had never before risen to Amy’s consciousness. The other three kids found their excuses to leave and wandered off.

Amy stood. “I’m right behind the kids. Good night, y’all. And thank you for dinner, Eliza.”

“Amy?” Nick said.

“Yes?” She looked down at him. He stood.

“I’d love to help you with this project. This is my specialty, you know. I know the barrier islands pretty well. My buddy Reese runs the Eco-Tours on the islands and—”

“That’s how we got out there the one time we went,” she said. “But we can’t seem to get permission to go back. The owners are freaking out that we’re going to mess up their big-time sale.”

Nick’s smile moved in shifting sand patterns of other islands, other smiles. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Phil stood up and coiled his arm around Amy’s shoulder. “Her committee—what did you say it was called, honey?”

Nick answered, “The Oystertip Wilderness Protectors.”

“Yeah, that, they’re doing a great job. I’m sure they have all the help they need.”

Eliza chimed in. “Yes, I’m sure Amy knows exactly what she’s doing.”

From far away came a voice that said exactly what Amy wanted to say: “We’d love your help.” A subterranean shift moved below these spoken words, and she avoided all eye contact as she worked her way down the hall to the bedroom.

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Nick Lowry sensed the rest of the house sleeping. He always could; the sleep felt like a dark, crouching figure, and even without checking he could tell if anyone in the house was up. If they were awake, the dark figure representing sleep would be alert and waiting for him to execute another mistake.

The smooth leather of the couch, the only piece of furniture in the lake house that he had picked out, wrapped around him as he dropped into the cushions. There was no way sleep would visit him tonight. His mind consisted of nothing but twisting thoughts of Amy that seemed to circle around a metal-grated drain, but never go down the hole, never disappear. For the past twenty-five years he’d avoided the barbed pain of finding out why Amy never came for him, why she’d turned away.

“Shit.” He stood from the couch, restless.