“That’s the point.” Shane clapped his hands together. “There are the facts of the photo and then the narrative of the photo. I want him to have both. Historical fact. Storytelling truth.”

Colleen was silent for a moment, weighing words that might come out wrong as they often did. “But maybe it’s better if some things are forgotten.”

“No!” Shane’s voice rang out louder than usual. “Memory forms us. What are we without it? We aren’t a biography. We aren’t a list of facts. We are memories. They are the shape of our souls.”

The sisters stared at him, their baby brother spouting a philosophy that made him sound like their dad.

Shane took a step toward them both. “We don’t get to choose which ones to give back to him either. Just because they confuse us doesn’t mean they aren’t important. They are all his and we will save them for him as best we can.”

Hallie sat on a chair and exhaled. “The shape of our souls.”

“Yes,” Shane said emphatically. “They are.”

Out in the pub, the fiddle player was now playing “The Lark in the Clear Air.”

“Has anyone ever asked Dad why he loves this song so much?” Hallie asked.

Shane shook his head. “Weird that I’ve never thought to ask why.”

Colleen felt the memory slip up on her like a warm blast of air. She and Hallie had been in the tree house playing jacks, the rubber ball bouncing as they grabbed the jacks into their palms. Mother and Dad were below on the lawn folding beach towels. Dad whistled the tune, the ever-present tune that infused their lives. Mother’s voice had risen. “Enough of that infernal song, Gavin. For God’s sake, enough.”

Colleen shook off the remembrance and glanced at her brother, something important brewing under the bubble of memory. “Let’s ask him. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Hallie picked up her purse and pulled the strap high on her shoulder. “I’m going home. I need to finalize some last-minute details.” She paused. “I don’t believe one person has RSVP’d with a decline, so I will have to get permission from the city to block off the street. And the bar won’t be able to handle it either—I have to find a few bartenders and put out an outdoor keg and bar. Do we decorate with photos . . . ?” Her voice trailed off as if the details were drowning her questions.

This was exactly how Hallie had planned Colleen’s wedding—with the same frenetic energy, the same obsession. Colleen had let Hallie do the work; she’d handed it all over to her. My God, she’d handed it all over—groom included.

“And”—Hallie clapped her hands together—“Dad’s timeline still isn’t coming together right.”

Colleen exhaled, as if by breathing deeply she could calm her sister. “We can help with whatever you need.”