THE SUN SHINES BRIGHTLY, WARMING my skin as I walk through Xavier Park with a mug of hot tea. I love Sundays, always have. The world sort of slows down for a second. People are happy from sleeping in or from going to church or hanging out on the sofa in their pajamas.

It’s a little treasure of life I’d forgotten about. With Eric, Sundays were a day to clean the house, iron clothes, change plumbing. There was never a leisurely breakfast or a trip to the country or a morning in bed with toast and television. I didn’t even realize how much I missed Sunday mornings until I got back to Savannah.

My phone stuffed in my pocket, I watch the geese on the lake and the kids playing on the swing sets and slides with their parents sitting at picnic tables, reading the paper.

It all makes my heart happy. The fresh air. The peace. The memories of Graham.

Keenan and I hit it off on our date, if that’s what you want to call it, but only as friends. By the third slice of pizza, we were joking about how pathetic we were, each clearly hung up on someone else.

I haven’t felt this happy in as long as I can remember. Maybe it’s not so much happy, it’s content. Optimistic. I’m not sure why the world looks a hint sunnier today, but it does.

My thigh vibrates, my ringtone jingling in my pocket. I pull it out and see Graham’s name on the screen. Hurrying to a vacant table, I set my tea down and smile ear-to-ear as I answer it. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” he says. “I’m sorry to bother you today.”

“It’s no problem.”

“I took the entire Landry Security file home and I can’t find the Gulica quote.”

“It’s in the red paperclip. The top page is a yellow sheet, I think. Something from . . .”

“I got it,” he says. The way he says it makes me wonder if he didn’t have it all along. “Thank you. Good memory.”

I climb on the table, picking up my tea. I love the sound of his voice.

It warms me from the inside out. “You’re welcome.”

“So . . .” He takes in a quick breath. “What are you doing today?”

“I’m at Xavier Park. Just walking around, drinking some tea,” I sigh happily. “I love Sunday mornings. What can I say?”

“Strangely, I do too,” he chuckles. “People are less assholish on Sunday. It’s like religion hits them or something.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

We laugh together, the kids behind me giggling as they run from the swings to the slide.

“When I was growing up,” Graham says, “my grandmother used to make a big Sunday dinner. We’d go to church and then to her house and she’d fry chicken or pork chops or make egg salad sandwiches. Us kids would run around her yard, raising hell, then we’d eat and watch football or take a nap or something. Those are some of the best memories of my life.”

“I’d just wake up and eat cereal and watch cartoons. My parents worked on Saturdays, so we’d have to go to a babysitter. Sunday was the day we got to stay home and sleep in. It was our lazy day. But you probably know nothing about being lazy.”

“Not really,” he chuckles. “But I do less on Sundays than I do the rest of the week. I may not take it completely off, but I do sleep in.”

“Until when? Five?”

“Six,” he protests. “I slept in until six today.”

“Slacker,” I tease. “I see you taking the day off. That’s why you called me to see about papers, right?”

“You got me.”

I take a sip of my tea, the honey at the bottom of the cup oozing to the top, touching my lips. “Tell me you at least had something crazy for breakfast.”

“Define crazy.”

“Kid’s cereal. Stuffed French toast. Biscuits and gravy.”

“I haven’t had kid’s cereal since I was a kid.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a kid.”

“That makes no difference,” I point out. “Those chocolate pebbles are the best thing ever. Let them sit in the milk until they’re a little soggy and . . . oh my goodness.”

“I used to like the fruity ones. Only as soon as they hit the milk, though. I hate them soggy.”

A smile touches my lips as I imagine Graham as a little boy, eating cereal as fast as he could. It’s adorable, probably even less adorable than it really was.

“Well, I had chocolate chip pancakes with butter and syrup,” I tell him. “Not much more adultish than chocolate cereal.”

“I haven’t had pancakes in forever.”

“Who are you?” I joke. “What do you even eat?”

“I had a blueberry muffin this morning. And a bowl of oatmeal.”

“So boring.”

He laughs. “So true.”

“Maybe I’ll bring you some pancakes tomorrow morning. I feel like you’re deprived.”

“Oh, so you’re coming in to work tomorrow, huh?” he singsongs. “Good to know.”

“Someone didn’t accept my intent to resign.”

“Someone was bluffing with her intent to resign.”

I blush because he’s kind of right. I didn’t want to resign, but I absolutely would have if it would’ve made things easier. But talking to him today doesn’t feel awkward. Maybe it even feels easier.

“I wasn’t exactly bluffing.”

“You were,” he says simply. “But I’ll tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“I like the way you bluff.”

“I like the way you do a lot of things,” I say quietly.

“You’re pretty well-versed in a number of things as well.”

Standing, I head towards the lake and consider my next move. I’m not sure where to go with this, so I change the subject.

“One thing I don’t do well is ski,” I say randomly. “I wish I could.”

“Where the hell did that come from?”

“I’m looking at the lake and thinking about the last time I water skied. It was a couple of years ago and I thought I was going to drown. I never did stand for more than a few seconds.”

“We go out every summer and fuck around,” he says. “I love to water ski. Snow ski. It takes focus and quiet and most of it is in your mind.” He pauses for a long moment. “Maybe someday I can give you a lesson or two.”

“That could be a summer bonus. Three free ski lessons.”

“I never said they were free.”

Taking a sip of my tea to wet my throat, I try to wrap my head around what that means.

He groans into the phone. “My father is calling. We’re working on a charity thing for Lincoln, so I really need to take it.”

“Go,” I say. “Take it. I’m glad you found the paper you were looking for.”

“Me too.”

The way he says that makes me think it was never lost, but I’ll never be sure.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say. “At eight sharp.”

“Goodbye, Graham.”

“Bye, Mallory.”