As soon as school let out, all three would rush to the Lark, located within walking distance of both the junior high and high schools, which were housed in drab brick buildings side by side. When they were younger, Mother would pick them up from the pub while other mothers sat in car pool or walked to the school. Often Colleen would beg to stay and do her homework there, and Mother usually allowed this. By fifteen years old, Colleen knew the difference between whiskey and bourbon and could distinguish the aromas of various types of gin. She wasn’t allowed to taste anything until she was sixteen, but by eighteen she could identify a brand of whiskey blindfolded. This particular skill had impressed more first dates than she could count.

Colleen knew the way to the Lark from every spot in town—a touch-point as familiar as her childhood home. And she drove there now with Gavin in the passenger seat.

Gavin stared through the windshield, his hands flat on the dashboard in some muscle-memory need to place his hands on a steering wheel. “When the heck is my car going to be ready?”

“I’ll ask Shane,” Colleen said and hoped her dad couldn’t see her face flush as she swallowed past the thickness of the lie.

“And when is your husband coming back to help me clean out the shed?” Gavin twisted in his seat and gently touched Colleen’s arm. “He promised he’d finish with me weeks ago. Such a good man, that Walter, always chipping in.”

Colleen neared the stop sign and stepped too hard on the brake, both of them lurching forward into the safety of their seat belts. “Whoa!” Gavin pressed his hands into the dashboard.

“Sorry, Dad.” Colleen took in a deep, shaky breath. “Walter is not my husband.”

Gavin squinted at her and set his mouth in a straight line. “Of course he’s not. Why would you say that? I know that.”

Colleen stared at her dad until the car behind them honked and she gently, very gently, pressed the gas to move forward, and then swerved the Jeep to miss a pothole. They both shimmied to the right, Gavin grabbing on to the side door handle. “Sorry, Dad, I don’t drive much at home,” she said.

“This is home.”

“I don’t drive much in New York, is what I meant.” They passed the bookshop and the market, the café and the medical clinic, the bright awnings of the downtown stores flashing by like kites.

“Wait,” he said and pressed his hands to the side window. “Where are you going?”

“To the pub, Dad.” Colleen stopped at a striped yellow tape stretched across the road and attached to two gas lanterns: construction crews blocked Second Avenue.

“But this looks . . . wrong.” His brow furrowed.

“Sorry?” Colleen glanced left and right. “Dad, I’m taking Blue Willow because Second is closed.”