Settling back against the pink fabric headboard, she scrolled through e-mail, her eyes finding another e-mail to discuss the possibility of a travel memoir. Outside, the birds were waking with their choral crescendos and Colleen wondered—where would such a memoir begin? Where would it end? And under those questions was a bigger one, about how one could reach tip number ten about “going home” when one didn’t know where home was. She couldn’t say yes to this assignment until she knew what it meant for her, what the memoir would really be about.

Someone in the kitchen banged a pot and soft music, too soft to identify, came to her ears. Dad was obviously awake and starting breakfast. The aroma of bacon filtered into the room. Habits died hard. No matter how many times they’d lectured him on the evils of bacon, he arose each morning and put exactly two strips in the frying pan, just as his wife had once done for him.

Colleen didn’t yet rise. She wanted to savor the memory of the night before when Beckett had taken her to gaze at the stars from a cove at the river. They’d lain back in a canoe without seats, an empty shell he’d left on dry land in anticipation of refurbishing it. He’d named the constellations as she tried to make out the shapes he saw: the Seven Sisters; the throne of Cassiopeia; the flying horse of Pegasus. They hadn’t talked about much else and he hadn’t asked why she’d been upset behind the pub or about the harsh words with her sister.

An hour into their quiet talk, she realized that if he did ask, she would tell him. But he was kind enough to let it be. Instead, she told him all about their dad, his mind being covered in plaque and tangles, his personality changing, the party and the memory book. After listening with quiet understanding, and sympathy, he took her home and left her with one soft kiss; he never asked for or expected more. Unaccustomed to such reticence, Colleen almost asked him why he didn’t like her, but she could see from the smile on his face and the gentleness in his kiss that he did.

This morning, he was taking her to the local historical society.

“Lena!” her dad called from the hallway.

“Coming,” she called out.

She opened her bedroom closet and stared at the dresses and shirts, the pants slung over hangers and the sweaters folded on the back shelf, neatly and by color. Her mother had done this—organized Colleen’s closet after she’d left—and it looked as though it had been waiting for her all these years.