Amy stared at this man, at Lisbeth’s father. He was tall, at least six foot three, tree-trunk solid with hair the color of the burnished leaves under her feet; a scar dented his lower chin. The scar: a slice of open flesh as a beer bottle slit his chin in a barroom brawl—something about whose turn it was at the pool table. Amy reached for the side of her SUV and missed.

Lisbeth giggled and Amy heard it through a long, echoing tunnel. “Daddy, come meet Mrs. Reynolds. Amy, right?”

“Yes . . . yes.” Amy glanced behind Jack for Phil. He was across the lawn with his back turned.

She smelled noises, heard smells; her senses moved and crowded each other for attention, mixed up with their true function as the air wavered with an actual and measurable width. A slow tingle of recognition began as an electric pulse in her stomach, her inner thighs; memory only in body, not yet mind.

“This is my dad, Nick Lowry.”

The air separated, Nick reached out his hand to Amy, as if he’d not just risen from the grave of the past, the coffin of dead promises. He looked at her. His grin broke open to the wide and recognizable face of her Nick Lowry. She held out her hand to greet her old lover as mind’s memory met visceral memory with the internal sound of grinding bone.

His face was wider, thicker on the bottom, the jaw softened, but it was his. Those brown eyes were still like liquid copper in his face. He didn’t look surprised—he must have known she’d be here.

“Well, hello, Mrs. Amy Reynolds.”

“Hello” is all Amy managed to utter. She smiled, grasped Nick’s outstretched hand, amazed at her good manners while the world swam sideways.

“What a coincidence this is . . . what a—”

Nick’s wife interrupted as she appeared from behind a van, tucking her blond hair behind her ear. “Yoo-hoo. Well, hello there, Reynolds family. I have just heard so much about you.” She stepped up to Nick and ran her hand down his bare arm, held the other hand out to Amy. “Hi, I’m Eliza Lowry.”

“Oh.” Amy shook Eliza’s hand.

Eliza looked up at Nick, then back at Amy. “And you are Amy Reynolds? Mother of the adorable Jack Reynolds?”

“Yes. Um, yes.”

“Well, nice to meet you,” Eliza said.

Phil appeared at Amy’s side; she reached for him, grasped him like a life preserver. Phil held out his hand and introduced himself to Nick and Eliza. Eliza gave a curtsy. The ground seemed to dissolve; Amy felt wide, rising.

Eliza wrapped Phil’s hand in both of hers. “It’s nice to meet you.” She tilted her neck a little more to the side, her smile widening just a tad as she swung her hair behind her shoulders.