“But,” Frank says, his voice rising, “what I suggest we do is add gas for your outdoor grill, so you don’t have to worry about tanks anymore. You can grill for guests and just flip a switch. And your gas appliances will make cooking your breakfasts so much nicer.” He stops. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” I say, my voice and face sagging.

“We’re going to clear out for the day,” he says. “Snow’s really starting to come down now. Roads are getting bad I bet?”

I nod.

“We’ll be back early tomorrow to take a closer look at the fish house and—if the weather breaks—get your roof fixed.” Frank stops, studying my face. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you go take a nap?”

“I can’t take a nap,” I say. “It’s still the middle of the day!”

“Do you mind?” Frank asks, walking over to the bookshelves in the living room.

My parents were voracious readers, and they made me one, as well. My mother loved fiction—from literary to commercial, even pulpy paperbacks—while my father adored nonfiction, especially historical or political biographies. The towering bookcases cover the entire wall around Darryl and the fireplace, my mom’s books on the left, my father’s on the right. My father always removed the dust jacket to the books he read. He would take the shiny jackets off, fold them and place them in a trunk he kept in the attic.

“This is the way a book is meant to look, Adie Lou,” my father would tell me every time he started a new book, holding the hardcover as adoringly as he held Evan when he was a baby. “Unadorned, without all the commercial rigmarole. Nothing but the author’s own words. In the old days, the cover would have been leather or linen.” He would stop and turn the book over in his hands, before taking a seat next to the fireplace, Darryl reading over his shoulder. “Hard shell. Flexible, sturdy spine. An inside filled with stunning beauty and wisdom. Just like the best people, Adie Lou.”

I stare at the high-back chair and can still see the impression of my father’s body in it.

Frank scans the right side of the bookcase for a few seconds, before plucking a hardcover as if it were calling to him.

“Your dad loaned this to me a long time ago, when I was taking over the business from my dad,” Frank says. “A biography of Winston Churchill. Your dad admired him greatly.” Frank smiles and begins flipping through the biography, which I notice is underlined and highlighted, sticky notes jutting everywhere.

“Ah,” Frank says. “Right here. Can I read you this?”

I nod, my back still pressed against the Cottage Rules sign.

“‘Success is not final, failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts.’”

I smile. “That sounds just like my dad,” I say.