From the farmhouse the sound of barking. She glanced toward the house.

“Please,” I said.

She studied my face for a moment. She reached out, put a hand on my elbow. “Are you the father of Alicia Curtis?”

“You know who she is?”

“Bror would not forgive me if I sent you away. Come.”

“And the dogs?”

She smiled. “No one is bringing the dogs.”

The kindness in her smile almost broke me.

I slid Franklin’s car seat out of its mount, slammed the car door shut. The sound cut harsh and sharp across the drowsy heat of the day. In the hedgerow the crickets fell silent, though Franklin did not wake.

“This way,” she said.

By the house was a large meadow. Above the meadow a sparrow hawk hung noiselessly, watching for the rustle of mice in the long grass below. I heard a cuckoo and, farther off, crows. We came to an iron gate. It slid open on silent hinges. The hawk hung in the air, wingtips shimmering. As we passed, it tilted and slid toward the far edge of the meadow, hung there watching silently down.

Our footsteps echoed off the white stone building ahead. In an upstairs window I caught movement. I looked up to see another female figure, also in gray. There, then gone. Like breath.

Above the open door hung another carved wooden sign:

You are entering a place of contemplation

“After you,” said the woman.

The air in the hallway was cool. I called out, “Hello?”

The timbers of the house flexed and creaked. I heard a large dog barking close by, then another. When I turned to look behind me the woman had disappeared.

“Hello?” I called out, louder this time.

“Ah.”

Bror stepped into view from a doorway halfway down. He pulled the door to, then turned, stood there in his gray vestment, arms open in welcome.

“Cal Curtis,” he said, as if I were his long-lost friend.

“Yes.” How did he know?

“And what a luminously beautiful child.”

“His name is Franklin.”

“You are welcome. Franklin is welcome. Perhaps your son would like to continue his nap on some lovely soft cushions?”

“He’ll be okay in his car seat. Thank you.” I set the seat on the flagstones.

“Handsome little fellow,” said Bror. “He will be fine there by the door. Now, we’re just finishing off . . .” With that same open-armed gesture, he turned away from me and into the room behind him.

I heard voices. A woman appeared. Heels and a pressed linen suit. She saw me and hesitated, a look of surprise on her face.

I stepped forward. “I’m Cal.”

Arno’s mother narrowed her eyes.

I said, “I’m Licia Curtis’s father.”

“I know who you are. I just . . .” She smiled, took my left hand. “Anyway, hello again. I’m Mari.”

“Hello, Mari. I didn’t expect to see you here either.”