“Company HQ in Chicago. That’s the other reason for my call. I got a promotion.”

My heart ached. Sam’s life was moving forward, and while I was happy for him, all it did was illustrate how much mine would never be the same again. I ordered my lips to move into a smile, hoped it would be enough for Sam to hear the gesture in my voice. “How fantastic. Congratulations.”

“Yeah, thanks. VP of national business development. I can’t quite believe it even though it’s been in the works for a month. I would’ve mentioned it before, but it was top secret.”

“This is good news, isn’t it? You don’t sound very happy.”

“Oh, yes, I’m thrilled. More than that, but, uh, the job’s here, in Chicago.”

“Don’t tell me they’ve turned you into a Cubs fan?”

He chuckled. “You know my heart will forever belong to the Orioles, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, that’s for sure. Actually, before I came here for the final negotiations I’d already decided if I got the job it would mean a permanent move for me.”

It took a while to reach the depths of my messy brain, but Sam’s message finally got there. “You’re selling your house? But you love this area. It’s where you grew up.”

“I know, but things...well, they change. I’m getting older, the amount of travel really is insane. Between us, there’s talk of our HQ relocating to California, in which case I’ll be closer to my daughter. There’s no point keeping a place on the East Coast I’ll never get to anymore.”

I closed my eyes, pressed the phone to my ear. “I guess you’ve made up your mind then, haven’t you? And I suppose you need me to clear out Jack’s things?”

“There’s no rush,” he said quickly. “I’ll put it on the market within the next month or so and have the place staged professionally. The apartment above the garage is a huge selling feature, apparently.”

“But what about Jack?”

“Like I said, there’s no rush—”

“But he’s not going to be very happy when he comes back and finds you’ve sold the place, is he?”

“Oh, sweetheart...”

The sympathy in his voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I knew that tone, the veterinarian had used it when I was eight, and our dog, a fluffy, happy-go-lucky Collie we’d named Pebbles had got run over. I’d insisted she’d be fine, the vet should operate. Neither the doctor nor my parents had agreed.

“You don’t think he’s coming home,” I said, my voice a few degrees cooler.

Sam let out a breath. “I want to believe it, truly, but it’s been almost a week...”