He saw the faces of his congregation, of Lydia, of Caleb Carey. He was beyond caring what any of them thought. But still, years and years of believing one way was hard to let go of completely.

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth,” Asher said, and he heard his voice trembling, “I’d have to think about it.”

“Never mind,” Stephen said. “Let’s go, Jimmy.”

“Wait, now.” Jimmy caught Stephen by the wrist. “Just be patient a minute.”

Stephen turned and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “We’ve been patient our whole lives.”

“I always said I’d never get married until I could in my own state. Where I was born and raised,” Jimmy said, evenly and calmly, as if he had been waiting to say these things. “Now that it’s finally legal here, I just thought you might be—”

“I’m sorry,” Asher said. “I just can’t say for certain right now.”

Jimmy shook Asher’s hand. “We appreciate how you’ve stood up for us.”

“But we’re as good as any other couple,” Stephen said. “We ought to be treated just the same.”

“I know you should,” Asher stammered. “I agree—”

Stephen stood before him, waiting for him to find the rest of his words. But the man already knew Asher was a coward. Stephen turned and shuffled down the steps.

“You take care,” Jimmy said, polite despite the disappointment in his voice. He stepped past Asher, out into the blinding white light.

Asher stood on the stoop and watched their car pull away and go over the ridge until it was completely out of sight.

“Come on, Asher!” Lydia hollered from the car, where she and Zelda sat fanning themselves, Lydia with the church program and Zelda with her purse. “We’re burning up.”

10

10

The last time Asher had heard from Luke was shortly before the flood. Like the times before that, it was only an unsigned postcard.

On the front was a photograph of a bird on a beach with an impossibly blue ocean beyond. The bird’s wings were an orange-edged brown, each one perfect and lovely. Its beak was long and black, as were its knobby legs, jutting out of a soft white down. There was something sorrowful about the way the round brown eye was gazing off into the distance.

On the back of the card there was Asher’s name and address, an American flag stamp, and a postmark from Key West, Florida, on the right, but this, best of all, on the left: the words the roaring alongside he takes for granted printed out in neat block letters. The handwriting was the same as on the previous two cards he had received over the last couple of years. Each had contained a fragment quote like this.