“Ten minutes,” she said softly. Cyrus kissed her again and started to leave. He watched from the backdoor as she packed her grief away, her sense of betrayal, saving it up for later when she could be alone to talk it out with God.

He went out into the backyard and took a seat on the wooden bench between Paulina’s bright orange zinnias and pink and yellow begonia bushes.

Cyrus always found it easier to meditate when he was outside and alone, close to trees, close to water. The morning sunlight trickled through the trees and over the grass like ripples on the surface of a living river.

He closed his eyes and went to his river.

In the beginning, when he first learned how to meditate, Cyrus would have to wait nearly an hour to get even a distant glimpse of that cosmic river in the deepest, oldest, wisest part of his mind. Now he could find it in seconds. He’d close his eyes and open his inner eyes and there was the pine forest and there was the winding dirt path, and just over the hill flowed the river.

He heard the water rising.

Cyrus focused on the coolness of the soft dirt under his feet as he walked and nothing but the cool soft dirt. The path was short and the river came into view quickly. Today it flowed slowly and the sun on it was gentle. On the opposite bank, a man stood, waiting. If they were to meet, they would meet in the river.

And if they were to meet in the river, Cyrus had to wade in first.

He reached the muddy bank and didn’t stop to roll up his pants. No need. This river was a river of truth and dreams and meaning. It ran only through his mind. Without fear—that had taken months to learn as well—Cyrus stepped into the water and found it warm and welcoming. The bottom was sandy but sturdy and shallow, though there were parts of this river that went over his head. Sometimes truth was like that.

The man on the opposite bank saw him and smiled. He, too, entered the river. And at the mid-point, halfway from bank to bank, they met.

Father Ike Murran.

He wasn’t wearing his usual clerical garb. He had on a light gray suit—a bit loose like he’d lost weight he didn’t need to lose—and a white shirt. No tie. His brown-gray hair was neatly combed. Cyrus could see the ghost of the handsome man Father Ike had been twenty years, thirty years ago. Even at sixty, he was a dignified-looking man.

Never too dignified for a smile, though.

“Cyrus Tremont,” Father Ike said with a wide grin. “You broke my heart.”

Cyrus laughed, couldn’t help it. Father Ike was the tenth man to say that to him today.

Today? What was today?

“I’m not gonna say I’m sorry,” Cyrus said.

“When’s the wedding again?” Father Ike asked.

“Not soon enough.”