A million hours later, we return to the marina to hug and kiss good-bye and make empty promises to grab lunch next week so we can laugh at each other’s cute comments about the weather. At last we part ways, and I’m flooded with relief—but just as quickly, my peace is surpassed by an oppressive fear of being alone. These gaps between distractions are getting harder to bear every day. I fill my ten-minute drive with NPR cranked to max volume.

At home, I shout, “Darlings!” into an empty foyer. My voice bounces off slate tile and returns to me. “I’m back.”

“We’re on the patio!” Birgitta yells.

I kick off my shoes and slide my feet into a pair of Ferragamo slippers by the door. Our house smells like cardamom and sugar, and I’m absolutely certain Birgitta will be the death of me, but I grab a warm roll from the kitchen anyway and head outside to where my husband is lounging in a chaise beneath the wisteria. I say to his nurse, “Birgitta, you little cunt. You baked again.”

She laughs. “I can’t help myself, Luna.”

“You’d better help yourself to half those cinnamon rolls or you’ll make me fat and I’ll end up with hip dysplasia, and I’m too damn young for a replacement, okay?”

She laughs again. I rest my hand on her shoulder, and we look at Graham, who laughs at the both of us, filling my heart just so he can wring it dry. “How was everything today?” I ask. “Did you two engage in acrobatic acts of sexual deviance while I was away?”

Graham smiles. My heart.

“Yes,” Birgitta says. “Pulled a hamstring, broke a chandelier. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not a problem.” I wink.

Birgitta packs up books and tools that don’t seem to be doing any good, and she pats Graham’s hand and says, “Until tomorrow, sir.” Then she’s gone.

I tuck my sadness away and tell Graham, “I missed you today,” kissing him lightly on the mouth, then the nose. “Frank McAlister was fanning his peacock feathers something terrible. He’s too clumsy to even do vulgarity right. There was no one to make funny faces with but myself.” I tear the roll in half and hand the smaller piece to Graham. “This wisteria is going bonkers, isn’t it?”

He grunts.