Luke spent as much time with her as he was allowed, although he had his own recovery and mental realignment to consider. He was in the hospital for four days, being treated for various maladies, including concussion and a herniated disc. He and Kitty were discharged at the same time, and a media circus awaited them on the outside. Luke—no stranger to flashing cameras and bleating reporters—blew them all off to be with Lisa. He spent long hours at her bedside, telling her stories, showing her photographs, brushing her hair. At Yolanda Grove, they went for walks in the surrounding gardens, identifying the birds and flowers. He played her favorite music: Etta James, Billie Holiday, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga. Sometimes she danced, moving her body unsurely, struggling to connect to the inner rhythm that had once coursed through her soul. Luke played her music, too, hoping it might unlock those deep, lost places inside her. Lisa recognized the melodies and occasionally sang along, but mostly her eyes shone with sadness.

Her family came down, and that was good for her. They did all the right things, and never pushed. Any interaction with Luke was layered with frost, and he had no problem with that. Maybe there would be conversations and reparations in time, but the handshakes and awkward hugs were enough to begin with.

It was slow, often painful, but Luke watched Lisa’s recuperation, like some beautiful building being restored, one brick at a time. She recalled childhood memories, favorite foods, pop culture trivia—nothing monumental in itself, but together they outlined a definite hope. It wasn’t all forward progress, though. Increasingly, it became clear to Luke that not everything could be fixed.

Lisa had been at Yolanda Grove four months when he finally accepted this. In keeping with her style—further proof that the woman he’d fallen in love with was finding her way back—it came in the form of a song.

It was early evening. Luke walked into her room to find her sitting at the window with a pen in her hand and a notepad set on one raised knee. The sinking sun cast a warm light across the gardens, and touched her outline with copper.

“Hey,” he said.

She turned to him. Sometimes she smiled and said his name. On a couple of occasions she had jumped to her feet and planted a kiss on his cheek. That hadn’t happened for a few months, though. Now a wrinkle struck her brow and her chin dimpled. Luke’s heart dipped. It was woefully ironic that every forward step she took was a step further from him.

He pulled up a chair and sat next to her. The window was open a crack, and the sounds of the evening eased in. They were varied and clear, complementing the deep light shining through the treetops.