She leaned against my arm. “Promise?”
I looked back at the house. Marcus was loading two duffel bags into the SUV.
Brin stood near the passenger door with sunglasses on though she was in the shade. She did not look toward the dock. Marcus did, once.
His face was unreadable from that distance. “I promise,” I said. Hattie wrapped both arms around my waist and held on longer than usual.
Kids know things. When the SUV pulled out, Hattie waved. Marcus lifted one hand from the steering wheel.
Brin faced forward. The tires crunched over the gravel. The sound faded down the driveway and disappeared into the trees.
Only then did I stand. “Hattie,” I said, “I need to make a phone call.”
She looked worried again. “Is it a doctor?”
“No.”
“Is it Dad?”
“No.”
“Is it somebody nice?”
I thought of Margaret Sutherland and nearly smiled.
“Nice is not the word most people use first, but she is exactly who I need.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She returned to her sketchbook. “Tell her about the heron.”
“I may.”
I walked to the end of the dock, where the boards narrowed and the water moved dark beneath the posts.
For years, that had been my thinking place. I had stood there the night Marcus told us he wanted to go to law school. I had stood there the morning Helen’s diagnosis became a word none of us could outrun.
I had stood there the afternoon after the funeral, when every casserole had been packed into the refrigerator and the house still smelled like lilies. My phone felt heavy in my hand. I scrolled to Margaret’s name.
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