She dropped Chick Pea off with her parents, then hit the freeway for San Francisco, driving at speeds that would have inspired feelings of rank betrayal if Eli had known. It was really kind of a miracle she didn’t get caught.

She’d gotten just past Black Oak, an hour and a half or so into her trip, before the fumes of fury and blind ache and grief spent themselves, and something like sense seeped in instead, and when it did, she was seized with an urge to see Mac.

To tell him that she did understand him. That she thought he was a freaking hero for picking himself up the way he had. That he had indeed blown her off course, but that she also recognized that he’d just spent nearly the last month trying to steer her back onto it, trying to point out to her the things she loved, the things that made her truly herself, as only someone who knew her—and loved her—could.

So she found the nearest off ramp and roared back the way she’d come.

Screeched into her own driveway and leaped out of the car, very like the way she’d screeched up to the courthouse the day she’d bought this house at auction. And she didn’t stop running until she was at the front door of Mac’s cottage.

She thumped on the door.

It swung open immediately, which gave her a start.

“Well, Avalon! Hello there.”

Avalon stared dumbly.

Morton Horton looked a bit awkward fully clothed. Kind of the way San Franciscans always look when they attempt to wear shorts out in public when the temperature in the city goes higher than seventy degrees.

“Oh, um, hello, Morty. Nice to see you again. Is Mac in?”

“Oh, Mac’s gone off.” He gestured airily toward the road.

“He’s . . . gone off?” Like a carton of bad milk? Like a roman candle?

In an ambulance?

Her heart lurched. “Is he okay?”

“He seems just fine. He called me up and asked me to look after his animals while he was away. He was in a huge hurry, so I gathered it was an emergency. He called in a favor, so here I am.”

“Where did he . . .” It wasn’t really any of her business, of course. It was so unexpected, she was struggling with equilibrium.

“He didn’t say.”

She cleared her throat. “How long is he . . .”

“He just said he’d let me know,” he said gently. “I don’t think he’d leave his animals for long. He asked me to look after things here for a bit and to see if there’s anything you might need. I can handle repairs or outdoor chores in a pinch. Helen will be by, too, and she’ll be happy to help, if you’re in the mood for a chat.”

And just like that, she felt like her heart was on an elevator and the cable had snapped.

It was a feat of heroic proportions to just get the next few words out.

“No. Thank you, Morty. That’s very kind, but . . . I was just on my way to San Francisco.”

She couldn’t feel her limbs again. Everything she was—all her thoughts and feelings—seemed to have retreated as far from the surface of her skin as possible and gathered in a tight, hard knot around her heart. The pain was so ghastly it was almost blackly funny.

Somehow she hadn’t quite anticipated his immediate exodus. Whoosh! Like a cartoon character whose legs blurred as they scrabbled to get away.

She blindly turned to leave on her leaden legs and nearly ran headlong into a guy who was rocking a prosthetic leg, a huge smile, and carrying a big manila envelope.

Morty greeted him with a huge smile and a bear hug. “Hey, Mike! Long time no see, man! We were worried about you.”

“I found work, man, and I just wasn’t able to get away until now. Mac around?”

“Nope. He’s out of town.”

“Damn! I’ve got something for him, finally.” He held up an envelope. “Ten thousand somethings, plus interest.”

Three hours of freeway driving and slow traffic later, San Francisco expanded into view, spectacularly beautiful as always, as colorful and varied in scale as a carnival, and just as loud and lively.

And maybe just as sketchy.

And smelly.

The idea of San Francisco as a carnival made her think of circuses. Which made her think of tightropes, which made her think of “Don’t Cry Out Loud.”

Which ironically made her cry out loud.

Gulping, messy sobs that threatened to obscure her vision. So she got a grip, because that’s what she did. She got a grip. She was a person who didn’t believe in magic anymore, so why the hell should she cry?

Maybe someday she would find comfort in being right about Mac Coltrane being a terrible risk. Didn’t it prove she had great judgment after all?

The excess emotion made her nauseated and a little dizzy.

But in the thirty hair-tearing, harrowing minutes it took to find a parking place within four blocks of her building (she finally double-parked) she didn’t think much about Mac, which made her realize that merely getting around in San Francisco required every single one of her faculties practically every minute of the day; and who had time to dwell, or for emotions, or for love, when you were doing that.

But was looking for a goddamn parking place really a good use of the remaining minutes of her life?

She’d texted Corbin earlier to steer clear of her for the entire day she’d be in town, and he’d complied. She was in and out of the apartment inside an hour. She’d always kept the clothes to a versatile minimum in honor of the teeny closet, and for the same reason a good percentage of the rest of her stuff was made of fabric that could be wadded into balls. She didn’t even feel the slightest urge to take a pair of scissors to Corbin’s favorite ironic thrift store bowling shirt (it said “Bert” on the pocket), which was how she knew the spark, if they had indeed ever shared such a thing, was irretrievably extinguished.

She paused in the doorway for one last look around, but that only reminded her of pausing there and listening to the headboard bam, so she slammed the door quickly with a little shudder.

The next thing she did was shake Visine into her eyes then make a sweep through GradYouAte’s offices to soothe the nerves of her staff with her sunny, efficient presence and a few brisk decisions, metaphorically tugging here and there at all the loose ends and straightening Corbin’s messes as best she could. Apart from the money issues. Those they would have to finesse together, somehow.

But the issues surrounding the work they were doing suddenly seemed irritating and pointless. She literally felt as if she were trapped in the midst of a boring dream.

In fact, after a month of feeling nearly everything on a symphonic scale—happiness and anger, peace and beauty, hilarity and admiration, orgasms—the entire day seemed muted.

San Francisco itself, arguably one of the most colorful places on earth in every sense of the word, seemed muted.

And it wasn’t just because she was trying not to feel inconvenient emotions again. It was literally the difference between a banquet and a TV dinner, and about the . . . ingredients in a day. Specifically, the people. The situations. The work.

The presence or absence of hope.

Or love.

Avalon crashed on Rachel’s couch in San Francisco’s Richmond District that night and instead of sleeping, listened to giant buses groaning up and down the hills. Before that, she drove around for forty-five minutes before she found a place to park her car. The Thai food was awesome, though, and Rachel had a line on a possible flat Avalon could sublet, one that would let her keep a little dog. Things could be worse.

She was glad Rachel worked late and had to get up early; Avalon could just barely handle the yawning hug and the few cheerful sentences they exchanged before they went off to their various sleeping arrangements. She missed Chick Pea. She missed knowing her sister could text for a favor and Avalon could get right in there and be a Hummingbird helper.

But the jobs were here, in San Francisco. Not only the one she’d created for herself, but the livelihoods she’d created for GradYouAte’s (albeit transient, young and flaky) staff, and she supposed she felt some responsibility to the people who’d been kind enough to buy the game and play it. She’d only planned for Hellcat Canyon and the house at Devil’s Leap to be an interlude, anyway. She knew Corbin was in no position to buy her out of GradYouAte, even if he wanted to—God only knew he didn’t want to run the place on his own. The whole company would look more attractive to a buyer if they could actually meet payroll, for God’s sake.

She exhaled. Then curled her hands under her cheek, and kissed her palm gently and thought, Godspeed, Mac, wherever you are, you fucker. Thanks for demonstrating that you didn’t run off with my heart, because I know now I never really got it back from you the first time. For a few weeks there, she’d remembered how it had really felt to have one.

Maybe Mac had been right all along. Romance was a racket. And nobody with any sense believed in magic.

The next day, as San Francisco shrank again in her rearview mirror, no part of her looked forward to returning to her life there. That was a first. At the very least, she’d always looked forward to good Thai food.

But she’d be back, and she’d make it all work out, because that’s what she did.

She currently just didn’t see any other way.

She finally turned the key in the lock of the Devil’s Leap house around four thirty that afternoon, and freed Chick Pea from her carrier to tinkle if she so chose. She chose only to sniff the flower beds and bark at a squirrel. She’d happily tinkled back at her parents’ house, apparently.

The house glowed like a bride inside from the fresh paint. The smell was evocative in some ways of spring: new paint had always smelled like anticipation to her. Like the beginnings of things.

Maybe that’s how she ought to look at it.

Rather than the end of a dream that, for one brief shining moment, she’d managed to capture.

Someone else would choose furniture for these beautiful rooms. See the rainbows sprinkle the foyer when the sun hit the chandelier just right. Walk across floors that glowed like amber. Wake up in the turret.

Maybe think twice about going in the attic.

The stuck or wobbly or dangerous parts—warped windows, creaky hinges, the stairs—now moved freely or, if they weren’t supposed to, not at all. Scratches had been smoothed away.

For a little while, she’d been awake inside a dream.

She still loved this house with the same ache she had as a girl.

But now she knew that love was all tied up with Mac, of a piece. And the house did not mean a damn thing without him.

And for that reason alone she could, and should, let it go.

Still, her heart was pretty weighted when she carried Chick Pea with her up the stairs to drop off a load of clothes.

As she dumped them on the bed a text chimed into her phone. She glanced down and her whole being reflexively knotted up.

It was Corbin.

Crap crap crap. She did not want to hear Corbin’s voice right now, when the sun was at its most mellow and golden here in the turret. She didn’t think he had the nerve to bother her with passive-aggressive requests just to get her attention, however. It must actually be urgent.

She punched his number. “What?” she said tersely, when he answered.

“Did you read that email from the venture capitalist firm? Coltrane Chatwick Forsyth? COLTRANE? What the hell, Avalon?”

Coltrane?

Her heart bounced like a rim shot.

She scrolled through her emails until she saw.

And then it listed a sum that stopped her breath.

It wasn’t jaw-dropping. But it was better than fair.

It was . . . freaking the answer to her prayers.

After they repaid their investors, Avalon and Corbin would be left with healthy chunks of money. Avalon with more, since she owned more of the company.

Enough money to go back to school if she wanted to.

The “T” stood for Tiberius.

Ty, Mac’s brother.

HOLY. SHIT.

That’s where Mac had gone. To see his brother in New York!

There could really only be one reason he’d done that.

He’d done it for her. Because of her.

Whoosh! Her crumpled, limp heart unfurled like a filled sail. She breathed joy instead of oxygen.

“Avalon, you there? The key to our success? Are they serious?”

The little voice in her hand gave her a start. She’d entirely forgotten about Corbin. “What the hell does that last part mean? The ‘hi Avalon’ bit?” Have you been planning this behind my back?”

“Shhh,” she said rudely. “No.”

Corbin was smart. He’d settle down and figure out this was about as lucky as he could get.

She pivoted abruptly when another email from “Martin Graybill Esquire” dinged into her mailbox. The subject line was: Devil’s Leap.

Graybill . . . Graybill . . . where and in what context had she heard that name before?

And then she remembered. The guy from the auction! Mac’s lawyer!

Her hands were shaking when she clicked it open.

She sat down hard on her bed.

She covered her mouth with her hand as little by little her vision began to blur with tears. “Oh my God.”

“Avalon?” said Corbin’s teeny voice from her hand.

Devil’s Leap was hers? What did it mean? What was Mac doing?

And then she got it: not only was he giving her choices.

He was making the proverbial Grand Gesture.

And then both she and Chick Pea gave a little leap and a yelp when the floor began buzzing beneath her feet. An instant after that the entire room was vibrating from an enormous swell of sound.

Like the earth heaving an enormous sigh.

And it was nuts . . . but she thought she recognized that sigh.

“Ava, can you hear me? Shouldn’t we talk about this?” Corbin, oblivious Corbin, obsolete Corbin, was still squeaking away on the phone in her hand.

She ignored him.

She drifted toward the window with almost as much trepidation as she had the morning a truck full of gourmet poop had been delivered to Mac, but with much more anticipation. She put her hand against it.

It was buzzing from sound.

And then she was positive. Because she knew this song the way she knew the sound of her own voice. How it sort of sighed into being, like a surrendering lover. The way the percussion slipped in, like a skipping heartbeat. The way the bass eased sinuously in alongside it, to give the melody shape.

How Bryan Ferry’s voice was like a murmur from the next pillow.

She threw open the window.

And in rushed Roxy Music’s “Avalon.”

Heat rushed over her skin like a rain of stars. Which was exactly how she once thought she would feel if a wizard had waved a wand over her.

She drifted over to the next room. She closed her eyes and murmured something like a prayer before she stepped outside onto the deck, her heart pounding twice as fast as the beat of the music.

And like the spire on a church, or the ornament on the hood of a Rolls-Royce, there was Mac. Tiny, but visible.

Standing on top of Devil’s Leap, holding a boom box aloft over his head à la Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything.

She clapped her hand over her mouth over a stunned laugh. “Oh, my God.”

Whoops. It happened to be the hand holding her cell phone. Corbin was squawking now. “Ava, what the hell is—”

She dropped the phone like a live coal.

She moved as if borne on a current of air, slowly at first, toward the stairs.

And then she walked sedately down them.

She managed to open the front door, even as her hands were shaking.

She closed it behind her.

And she followed the flagstone path. Walking. Like a grownup. Like the woman she was, who had learned to be cautious.

And then she couldn’t help it. She moved faster.

And then she was running.

Hair flying out behind her, elbows pumping, the memory of the path in her body, she ran like a little girl. Down the drive. Past the mailboxes. A hard left up the gravel road for fifty or so feet, a swift scratchy plunge through some underbrush. Down the path lined with blackberry vines where he’d first kissed her, that narrowed to the sandy path that heralded the beginning of the little beach.

She picked her way through a collection of familiar stones, a dozen shades of gray from green to brown, and curved toward those slabs of stone that had helpfully been arranged over the centuries to form a sort of stairway for the nimble and brave, all the way up to Devil’s Leap. But you had to know where to put your feet.

She hadn’t taken this path since she was seventeen, but rocks don’t change much over decades. But they do indeed change. It just wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

Kind of like stony hearts.

And then, at last, she was on top of the rock, flat and broad as a stage.

And she was next to him.

He eyed her wonderingly, almost cautiously, as if making sure she wasn’t a mirage.

Then slowly lowered the boom box.

And settled it down at his feet.

It apparently was a prop, and he’d learned a few things about Bluetooth speakers.

Because thrillingly, he extended his arm and aimed a remote somewhere off into the distance, and the music lowered to a murmur, and the sun chose that moment to turn a streamer of cloud into tangerine, and he was like a wizard aiming a wand that could turn up the colors and sounds of the world.

A wizard whose hand was trembling as he stuffed the remote in his back pocket.

“You wanted choices.”

He gave her a little lopsided smile.

“Mac . . . you’re . . . you’re just . . .”

She shook her head, because feelings were getting in the way of her ability to form words, and he was blurring from tears.

“Yeah,” he agreed, with relief. “I sure am.”

His smile faded. “Okay. I need to tell you something, all right?”

She nodded.

He drew in a breath. “That night when you blew a fuse? I knew the moment you did it. It was kind of funny. Suddenly everything was silent and dark, and the house was just this shadowy pile. And then I gave you the fuse, and I watched out the window as you went into the basement . . . and I waited. And I didn’t know it, but I was kind of holding my breath. And when your house finally lit up again, it was the strangest feeling, but it was like watching actual magic. I felt like I was lit up, too.”

This was hands-down the best story she’d ever heard, and it wasn’t even over yet.

“And that’s what I understand now: for me, you’re like that fuse. You’re the magic. For me, there’s no point to this house or this town or possibly to anything, really, without you. You can laugh if you want, but that’s as romantic as I know how to be.”

It was as romantic as anyone had ever been in the history of the world, as far as she was concerned.

“I’m not going to laugh.” She said it solemnly as a priestess. Her voice was shaking a little.

She watched his chest move in a huge sigh. As if he’d been dreading getting through that and he was relieved.

“I know this comes as a shock to you, Avalon, but I’m far, far from perfect. But I will be perfect at one thing: I will get you down out of attics and hand you ice and build anything for you, any kind of life you want. I know how to make you happy. No one will ever be better at that than me. And I know you. Not just how many freckles you have, but I know your heart. Not only that, but I have a plan. Because I will never not have a plan. Want to hear it?”

She nodded. He threaded his hands through hers and pulled her gently up against his chest, as if he sensed she was in danger of floating away like a dandelion from the sheer lightness of being.

And his voice got lower. And a little rushed, but to her, it might as well have been a spell.

“We live here. Together. You and me. In the big house. We raise goats and chickens and maybe get a horse or a donkey and other animals that need some looking after. We hold classes for kids, all kinds, for at-risk kids and programs for vets, too. About farming, ecology, animal husbandry. You get your teaching degree, if you still want it. We can get grants from the state and from other sources—I’ve looked into this—and invest our own funds, and if you choose to sell GradYouAte, you’ll be pretty comfortable, too. I’m still working on it, and I already have a spreadsheet. Between the two of us, we can pull it off. We can even have outdoor concerts at a venue we build or other special events in the ballroom. Maybe even . . . weddings.”

The donkey was kind of a wildcard but she was on board with every bit of this.

She wasn’t going to mention the wedding part. They’d get around to that.

“Or . . .” he concluded. “You go on back to GradYouAte. I buy the house from you. If that’s what you want.”

He was a swirl of impressionistic colors, thanks to tears.

She swiped at them with a knuckle. “I choose staying with you.” She didn’t even make him wait. Her voice was thick.

She could literally see his breath stop then. His eyes closed and his head tipped back and his mouth moved in a word that looked like hallelujah.

The world was only his eyes, and his breath, and his hands twined in hers, and the river moving over the rocks as they stood high above it.

He raised their twined hands and collected her tears from her eyelashes gently on his knuckle. “I’ve loved you pretty much from the moment I laid eyes on you, Avalon. You have my heart. You can keep it or you can throw it off Devil’s Leap. Devil’s Leap’s yours, too.”

“Your heart is the most precious thing in the world to me,” she could have said. But he’d already filled the air with romance and she knew he liked it when people said exactly what they meant.

So she said, “I love you.”

Three words that contained worlds and the past and the future. They were as beautiful and intricate as the house, as basic as Mac.

He closed his eyes briefly and his head went back and he exhaled a breath. He folded his arms around her.

“And Devil’s Leap is ours,” she corrected on a murmur, as she melted against him, and looped her arms around his neck.

And her face turned up as his came down. They kissed each other like they’d invented kissing.

Somehow, deftly, as this was all happening, he’d managed to free the remote from his pocket and he used it to turn up the music again.

And they rotated in a slow circle, bodies fit together like gears, the length of him warm and strong against the length of her, like kids at a high school dance, there was no sound except Roxy Music and the river below them.

Until:

“You were right all along,” he murmured into her hair, sounding only a little surprised. “This isn’t ridiculous at all.”