That night, she sat alone in her childhood room with her dad’s memory book and the sounds of a house she knew as well as the murmur of the river. Yes, she wanted to be alone with the book and the memories and the clanging of the past a constant din in her ears, but she also felt the warning pricks of desire that told her to move on. She wanted to hang out with Beckett. She wanted to tell him what she’d seen and heard that day. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder and listen to his stories while he listened to hers. And that right there was enough reason to turn down the date. She could not and would not disappoint one more man, one more person, with her inability to go any further than where she was right then. With skill, after much adroit practice, she pushed aside the thoughts of Beckett and turned the pages of the book, reading the stories Hallie and she had written and gazing at the accompanying photos.

The heavy leather book with the hand-sewn crisscross stitching on the spine sat heavy on her lap. Dangling loose was the leather tie that had bound it all together with a seashell clasp. It was a work of art, just as her dad’s life had been. But not even this book and its elegant appearance could in any way give her dad’s life its due. It couldn’t give him back his laugh or his way of moving through the world with a grin and a saunter. It couldn’t show the twinkle in his eye or the quick wit that could conjure up a perfect retort when it was needed. It couldn’t offer solace when loss knocked her over with a punch of grief.

So what was its purpose? What Shane had said from the beginning—to give their dad memories when they’d been erased, to fill in the blanks if only for the moment he read it or looked at it. At best, it would return him to himself. At worse, it would be just a pretty book.