It all came down to this—to today; he would tell Amy what had really happened, where he’d really been. The air felt lighter on his skin, darkness of any kind lifted with the mere knowledge that she would hear the truth. He wanted all the misunderstanding and confusion that had blighted those years since he’d last seen her to clear as fog lifting after the rising sun. It wasn’t betrayal that kept her from him, it was absence of knowledge—all else faded in the bright light of this fact.

Eliza walked into the kitchen and looked him up and down. “What are you wearing?”

“Um . . . it looks like khaki shorts, a T-shirt and hiking boots. Is there a problem?” She wore silk pants with a floralsequinned pattern down the legs and a pale blue blouse. Her satin hair and lip liner were in place and he remembered—the party, the anniversary or birthday of someone important.

“Oh, God, Eliza. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“I reminded you last night and this morning on your voice mail.”

“I’ve been in the field all day—I didn’t . . . I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes.

“Well, just go change. I’ll wait.”

“I can’t. I committed to go to . . . on-site.”

She groaned. “I told you it’s an early-evening dinner—I thought that’s why you were home—it’s a surprise party.”

“I’m already late, Eliza. I’m sorry. Please give my regrets to—who was it?”

“Oh, come on. This is Dick Foreman’s sixtieth birthday party at the Club. You cannot miss it.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you realize he is the CEO of Southern Timber? They were just bought out by—”

“I know who they were bought by. I keep up with all of it—trust me. I’m busy enough with my own job not to worry about somebody else’s.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Case in point: I have to go.”

“Can’t this wait—what project can’t wait?”

Nick grabbed his keys from the desk. “The Oystertip Island project.”

“Not the same one that Amy Reynolds works on, right?”

“One and the same.”

“Nick . . .” She turned away. “No.”

“This is about an island, not an old girlfriend.”

“Bullshit.”

He laughed at the unfamiliar sound of his wife’s prissy voice cursing.

“It’s not funny. You’re only doing this because of her.”

“Even you don’t believe that. This is what I do. How many projects like this have I worked on—or at least volunteered for?”

“That’s the point. Greenpeace, National Wildlife Federation, CARE, now some OWP thing. How about you support the Lowry family?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not supposed to mean anything, except I wish you’d go to this party and I wish you were home more.”

“I’m home all the time. What are you talking about?”