Huck notices and holds his arms open.

She stares at him.

“I’m just offering you a hug,” Huck says. “That was tough on you and the news I greeted you with was no picnic either.”

Irene takes a tentative step toward him. He wraps his arms around her. It has been…well, a long time since a man held her like this. Russ, before he left for his “business trip” after Christmas? Had he hugged Irene or kissed her goodbye?

No, she remembers. She had been in Coralville returning some Christmas presents for Milly. She had been angry at Russ for leaving over the new year, and as punishment, she had denied him a proper goodbye.

She tries to remember what Christmas had been like. It was just the two of them in the morning in front of the tree, opening gifts. They had talked to each of the boys on the phone and they had joined Milly for the Christmas lunch served at Brown Deer.

Had they been intimate? Had they hugged and kissed? They’d held hands, she remembers, during the Christmas Eve service at First Presbyterian.

That had been nice, Irene supposes, but it hadn’t offered the comfort or the rush of this hug. Irene fits into Huck’s arms perfectly. His body is solid and warm. Can she trust him? She feels like the answer is yes—but she would have said exactly the same thing about Russell Steele. She would have said Russ was beyond reproach.

“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” Huck says in her ear. “Maia is with Ayers and I have an idea. We’ll go over to St. Thomas.”

St. Thomas is bigger, and they can be anonymous. For some reason, this suits Irene better than being seen out in Cruz Bay, where everyone knows Huck and might guess who Irene is.

“Okay,” she says.

Irene meets Huck back at the dock at six thirty. He told her to dress up and so she’s wearing a spring-green linen sheath with a belted middle, a dress she bought for Baker’s high-school graduation thirteen years earlier—right around the time that Russ met Rosie, although she tries to put this thought out of her mind.

Huck is wearing a blue button-down shirt, ironed khakis, and if Irene isn’t mistaken, there’s a navy blazer folded across the back of the captain’s seat.

This is a real date.

Huck has wine on the boat. He pours her a glass of Cakebread chardonnay—she can’t believe he remembered what kind of wine she likes—and he opens a beer for himself.

“We aren’t going far,” he says. “Just over to the yacht club in Red Hook. Fifteen minutes.”

They cruise out, nice and easy, across Sir Francis Drake Channel as the sun sets. Irene considers sitting in the bow and letting the wind catch her hair—it’s out of its braid tonight—but instead, she sits next to Huck where she can listen to the music, Jackson Browne singing “Running on Empty.” The sky glows pink and blue and gold; Huck is humming; Irene’s wine is crisp and cold. There is nothing wrong with this moment.