“In that case,” said Cam, “I’m going to take you to Wolfe’s Tavern, at the inn. It’s a famous landmark around here. You’ll love it, I promise.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” said Alexa. “Some of my favorite places are landmark taverns.”

He laughed, and his laugh was a genuine sound, no malice in it, no ill-will or awkwardness. People didn’t often laugh at things Alexa said that way, and her face and heart both warmed.

Alexa offered to drive the Jeep but Cam demurred and said they’d take the minivan. “I’m more used to driving in the crush of people and cars that is the heart of Wolfeboro in the summer,” he said. “Pedestrians leap out into the roads without warning or provocation.”

Alexa figured she must be imagining it when she looked in the minivan’s rearview mirror and saw a black SUV. Well, she wasn’t imagining the SUV: it was really there, and really black. But she must be imagining that it had come for her: she wasn’t even in her own car. Still, the chorus started again in her head, like the far-off beating of a drum. The bad men, the bad men, the bad men. She shivered so visibly that Cam reached for the AC button on the console and raised the temperature.

Discuss the concept of fear in your trip to Winnipesaukee, Alexa.

At the tavern, Cam showed Alexa where his father’s silver mug was hanging from the ceiling, along with the mugs of all the other people who had completed the one hundred beer challenge; he showed her the moose that people kissed after completing the fifty martini challenge. They shared an order of asparagus fries, the Nashville hot wings, and pork pot stickers.

By the time they returned to the house, someone had put lights on in a few of the rooms; the house looked so welcoming and unblemished that Alexa’s throat caught. The house was beautiful, yes, but more than its beauty was the fact that its coziness, its familial feeling stood in contrast to Alexa’s own lonelier home, bowing still to grief. As if specifically placed to complete the tableau, from somewhere out on the water came the soulful, haunting cry of a loon.

“That’s a yodel,” said Cam knowledgeably. “Which is different from a wail. Only the males yodel. Listen—”

Cam stepped closer to her and they leaned together against the minivan, listening. Cam intertwined his fingers with Alexa’s and, despite her worry that some of the Nashville hot sauce lingered on them, she was scared to move, almost scared to breathe, lest she destroy the moment. A loon called again.

“That was a wail,” he said. “Did you hear the difference? They’re talking to each other with the wail, regaining contact. It’s pretty amazing how they do that, make sure that they’re never lost from each other.”