HANNAH

“So how did it go last night?” Georgia asked as we worked alongside each other in the inn’s kitchen.

“Good, I guess.” I poured waffle batter into the two irons on the counter and closed the lids. “But it was strange for Abby, I think. She asked me later if I was sure he wasn’t her dad.”

“Awww, that had to be hard.”

“It was,” I admitted. “It felt like telling her Drew was gone all over again.”

“Do you think she understands?” Georgia went to the fridge and took out more eggs.

“Yes.” I sighed. “But I think she also hoped for a different answer.” I lifted the lids to check on the waffles, but they needed about thirty more seconds. “Wes thinks the best way to clear up any confusion is to spend more time with him.”

“He’s probably right.” Georgia dropped a few eggs into the frying pan and stirred her Hollandaise. “Don’t you think?”

“He has me mostly convinced. We’re supposed to go over to his mom’s this afternoon and I tried to get out of it, for Abby’s sake. But he says it would be better to come.”

“I think he’s right,” Georgia said confidently. “You should go. It will be fun for Abby and for you. When’s the last time you spent an afternoon at the beach?”

“I can’t even remember.” Carefully, I took the waffles from the irons, plated them, and added the blackberry compote and crème fraîche. Margot breezed in and scooped up both plates for serving.

“Two minutes on the eggs Benedict,” Georgia told her.

Margot nodded and hustled back out the door.

“So what about you? Georgia asked, pouring sauce on top of the eggs. “Was seeing him as painful as you thought? Did you have a seismic emotional meltdown?”

“No. More like a mini emotional quake. But we handled it. Actually, it sort of helped to talk to him. I felt like he understood.” And then I pretended he was Drew while he rubbed my back.

“See? This could be a healing relationship for both of you.”

“Maybe.”

Margot and the other servers swung into the kitchen again, and we got busy with new orders, which left us less time to talk. But what she’d said made sense—as did what Wes said. Maybe the best way to drive home that Wes was not Drew was to let him in, not shut him out. Maybe keeping him at a distance would only feed Abby’s hopeful confusion. Maybe what we really needed was more time together, not less.

But just to make sure, I called Tess on my way home from work. Of all the women in my widow support group, I felt the closest to her, maybe because our journeys were the most similar. We also shared a therapist, which was how both of us found the group, and we often called each other to agonize or celebrate a particularly difficult session.

Tess listened to my side of the story, murmuring sympathetically and assuring me my reactions were totally understandable.

“Even wanting to pretend he was Drew just to feel his arms around me?” I asked doubtfully.

“Totally. It would be understandable even if you didn’t want to pretend he was Drew, and just wanted to feel a man’s arms around you!” she cried. “My God, look what I did with the tree man. Sometimes you just want that. Not love, not a relationship, not a date, but arms. Chest. Shoulders. Skin. Stubble. Muscle. The smell of a man. The solidity of him. Remember how those things used to make us feel?”

Did I? “Vaguely.”

“Well, it’s okay to want them again. To want to feel that way again—taken care of. That’s all you needed. It had nothing to do with him being Drew’s brother.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but I went with it. “Right.”

“And I think he’s right about letting him into your lives,” she went on. “It’s like Exposure Therapy. Remember that shit?

“Ugh, yes. It was so hard.” Exposure therapy involved us sort of deconstructing the event of our husbands’ deaths, facing all of our fears and anxieties about it. It was excruciatingly painful, and I wasn’t entirely sure it had worked for me, since I still had boatloads of anxiety, but after those sessions, I’d at least been able to get off the pills I’d been taking to cope.

“So I think this could be like that for you and Abby. Stare that fucker down. Look him in the eye and tell yourself, ‘This is not my husband because my husband is gone. This is his brother and he is going to be part of our lives from now on.’”

“Okay. I’ll try. Thanks, Tess.”

“You’re welcome. Of course, fuck if I really have any answers, I’m feeling my way just like you are.”

“I know you are. How’s the weekend going for you?” Weekends were always tough for widowed people. If we got invitations at all, we felt like the fifth wheel, the odd man out, the third person on a bicycle built for two. It’s one of the reasons I liked my job—it kept me busy on weekends.

“It’s okay. Kids will be back tomorrow, so I’m doing all the laundry and cleaning. Boring stuff.”

“Want to come to the beach with us this afternoon? I’m sure it would be okay.”

“No, no. I’m fine, really. I’m getting to the point where I can enjoy a little solitude again.”

“Good. Call if you need anything.”

“Same. Have fun today.”

We hung up, and I took a quick detour to the grocery store to get the ingredients I’d need for the potato salad. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed today, although sometimes with Lenore it was hard to tell if she was more put out when I brought something for the table or when I didn’t. Inside the store, I filled a small hand-held basket with what I needed along with a bottle of wine, and got in one of the long lines to check out. Holiday weekends were always busy.

“Hannah? Is that you, dear?”

I turned and saw my mother-in-law behind me. “Oh hi, Lenore.” Dutifully, I left my place in line and went to kiss her cheek.

“Is Abby with you?” she asked, looking around.

“No, she’s with the sitter. I just got off work, and I wanted to pick up a few things to bring to the house later.”

Lenore clucked her tongue. “You don’t have to bring a thing, dear! We’re just so glad you and Abby are coming over.”

“It’s just a curried potato salad,” I said, shrugging it off.

“My, that sounds exotic. I’ve never cared for curry myself.”

I forced a smile. “No?”

“No, my family always preferred good old-fashioned American potato salad.”

My fingers tightened around the handle of my basket. “I mentioned it to Wes this morning, and he said he liked curry.”

“Yes, he told me about breakfast.” She sighed dramatically. “Guess his mother’s waffles aren’t good enough for him anymore.”

“I’m sure it’s not that,” I said. “Oh, I just remembered one more thing I need. I’ll see you in a little while. About four?”

“Perfect, dear. See you then.”

I made a beeline for the wine aisle and added another bottle to my basket. I had a feeling I might need it.

* * *

At a few minutes to four, Abby and I knocked on the screen door of my in-laws’ house. I’d never forget the first time Drew had brought me here—I’d been bug-eyed at how big and beautiful their place was. Expansive green lawn, gorgeous flower gardens, golden sandy beach, the view of the lake from almost every room in the house. The place had six bedrooms!

I’d grown up in a tiny, two-bedroom bungalow with a view of a Rite Aid parking lot, daughter of a single mother who worked her fingers to the bone at her family’s tailoring business but still found time to put a home-cooked meal on the table every night. We hadn’t had a lot, but it was a happy enough childhood. Although I’d never known my father (my mother said I was better off), she was part of a big Italian family and I had lots of cousins to play with at big, noisy, extended-family Sunday dinners. I wished Abby could experience something like that, but the Parks family was very different from what I was used to. We’d probably have linen napkins and crystal glassware on the beach for this cookout. Back when Drew was alive, we used to laugh about his mother’s insistence on formality and her not-always-subtle digs at my humble upbringing. Dealing with her had been so much easier when he was there.

Wes came to the door and opened it with a warm smile on his face. His smile was slightly different than Drew’s, I was beginning to notice. A little less crooked and rakish, a little more straightforward. “Hey, guys. So glad you’re here.” He held the door as we passed through, then reached for the bowl of potato salad I’d brought and the bag containing the bottles of wine. “Let me take those.”

“Thanks.” As soon as my hands were empty, I began twisting my ring around my finger.

“There she is!” Lenore came barreling around the corner and scooped Abby up, setting her on her hip, even though she was really too big for that. “I’m so happy to see you. And do you know what? I heard you wanted to see some pictures of your daddy when he was a boy and I’ve got just hundreds of them! Would you like to see them?”

“Yes,” said Abby happily, her feet swinging. She also clutched the little stuffed elephant Wes had given her yesterday.

Lenore glanced at me. “Hello, dear.”

“Hi, Lenore.”

“Make yourself at home. There’s lemonade and sweet tea if you’d like it, and I’ve set out some snacks on the island.”

“Thank you.”

She carried Abby off into the great room, sat on the couch with her, and opened a photo album on her lap, one of a stack of albums on the coffee table.

Wes appeared with both bottles of wine I’d brought in his hands. “Which one would you like?”

“The sauvignon blanc would be great.” Thank God for Wes. I did not want sweet tea right now.

“You can look at the pictures with them if you want. I’ll bring it out to you.”

I glanced at Lenore and Abby, who seemed thoroughly engrossed in the album, and decided it was a moment best left to grandmother and granddaughter. If I went over there, Abby would likely have climbed onto my lap, and as satisfying as that might have been, I decided against it. “You know what? I think I’ll let your mom spend a little time alone with Abby talking about Drew. I think it would be good for both of them.”

Wes nodded. “I think you’re right. How about the deck? Or we could head down to the beach?”

“Beach sounds wonderful.” I followed him into the kitchen.

While Wes opened the wine, I perched on a bar stool at the marble-topped island. “Where’s your dad?” I asked. Dr. Parks was wonderful, and I had a soft spot for him. I liked to think he had one for me, too.

“He got a call from his answering service and made a house call.”

“I love that he still does that. It’s so old-fashioned.”

Wes poured two glasses of pale amber wine. “It is. Although I’m kind of used to the idea that a physician should go where he’s needed.”

“So will you do that too?” I asked. “Make house calls?”

“Sure,” he said, sliding a glass toward me. “That’s one of the best parts about being a doctor in a semi-rural area. More flexibility to go where people need you.”

“Drew didn’t make house calls very often.” I shrugged. “But I don’t know if that’s because he didn’t want to or because your dad really liked doing it.”

“I don’t know either,” he admitted.

We were silent, both of us taking a sip of wine.

“Do you ever feel guilty about those things?” Wes asked. “Like the things you didn’t ask him that aren’t really that important big picture, but things you wonder about?”

“All the time,” I said. “For example, I’m not even sure what his favorite color was. Is that horrible?”

Wes cocked his head. “Was it blue?”

I threw my hands up. “I don’t know. I don’t think I ever asked. He had a lot of blue shirts, so maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s yours?” I asked.

“I like blue. It reminds me of the lake.”

Both of us glanced out the windows toward the water. “Did you miss it?”

“I did. Africa is beautiful, though.”

I sighed and took another sip of wine. “I’d like to go there someday. I’ve never been anywhere.”

Wes took another drink too, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve never been anywhere far.” I lifted my shoulders. “Drew and I never quite made it to Europe like we planned, and I didn’t have the money growing up. The farthest I’ve been is probably Florida.”

“Where would you go? If you could go anywhere.”

“Hmmm. Maybe Italy? My mother is Italian and I really do love Italian food and culture. I think it would be cool to explore my roots. Or something.” I laughed, a little embarrassed. “That sounds silly.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not at all. I’ve been having those same kinds of feelings lately. Maybe because I’ve been away from home for so long. And even though it was by choice, there’s still something to be said for that feeling you get when you come back.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

A whoop of laughter made us both look toward the great room. Wes spoke softly. “This is so great for my mom. She loves Abby so much.”

“I know.” I stared into my wine. “I haven’t been that good about making Abby…available to her. I don’t know why.”

Wes didn’t reply, but his silence didn’t feel at all judgmental. I remembered that about him. His silences, and the way they invited confidence.

“My therapist said I might be punishing her.”

He tilted his head. “What do you mean? Punishing who?”

I took a deep breath and another gulp of wine. I’d never talked about this with anyone outside therapy, not even Tess. “My therapist thinks that I might be unconsciously trying to punish Lenore by keeping Abby from her, because I never felt fully accepted by her when Drew was alive. It always seemed like we were in this, I don’t know, competition for his affection. It sounds stupid and he always said I was crazy, but it was how I felt.” I met his eyes. “Do you think I could be doing that?”

He didn’t answer right away. He held my gaze, then dropped his to his wine, which he swirled in his glass. “I think,” he said, “that you’ve suffered a lot. And that it’s only natural to want to keep your daughter close to you.”

I took another drink and let that sink in.

“We’re not perfect, Hannah. And grief is overwhelming. It makes you feel helpless, like everything is out of control. Since time with Abby is something you can control, maybe you sort of cling to that as protection.” He paused before going on. “I think it’s why I threw myself into my work—along with being a distraction from grief, helping people made me feel more in control. Like I wasn’t powerless against death.”

“I hate that feeling,” I said, shivering. “The fear that no matter what we do, death is just coming for us when it wants to and there’s nothing we can do about it. Do you know I still hate the sound of my doorbell, because every time it rings I think it’s the police coming to tell me someone else is dead?”

He nodded. “I have nightmares a lot. Where I’m trying to operate on someone’s heart and I don’t know how to do it. I can’t save them. In the end, the person is always Drew.”

“Oh God, I hate the nightmares,” I said. “You wake up screaming and sweating and frantic, and then there’s the moment of relief when you realize it was just a dream, except it’s taken away from you the very next second because you look around and realize he’s still gone. You’re still alone.”

“I wonder all the time if I could have saved him,” Wes went on. “Like, if I hadn’t been halfway across the world, maybe we’d have been running together. Maybe there would have been something I could have done.” His beautiful, familiar eyes grew shiny. “But I wasn’t here.”

“Wes, don’t.” I touched his arm. His skin was warm beneath my palm. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” He backed away from me a little and shook his head. “I invited you over to have fun today and here we are talking about death.”

“Hey, listen. I know better than anyone what a constant companion grief is. And she’s a bitch, too. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of her, she shows up again.”

Wes laughed a little, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

“And we are going to have fun today.” I sipped my wine. “Tons of fun. And then later…”

“We’ll feel guilty about it,” he finished.

“Exactly.” Our eyes met. Something was exchanged between us—understanding, sympathy, regret—I don’t know what it was. But it eased something within me. It was like we were both in on the cruel joke our feelings played on us. I smiled ruefully.

He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not alone, Hannah. I promise.”

Something happened when he touched me. Something floaty and quivery in my stomach I hadn’t felt in years.

“Should we go down to the beach?” he asked, taking his hand off me.

But the feeling lingered. I wasn’t sure I liked it. “Sure.” With one more glance at Abby, who was totally swept up in her grandmother’s stories and photos, I faked a smile at Wes. “Let’s go.”

He refilled our glasses, tucked the bottle of wine into a sleeve pulled from the freezer, and led the way across the lawn, past the seawall, and down the steps to the beach. Before I could stop myself, I realized I was staring at his butt as he walked ahead of me. It looked nice and round in his red bathing suit.

What on earth? Stop that.

It was warm and a little breezy on the beach, but the waves were gentle. They calmed my nerves.

“Want to go out in the canoe?” he asked.

“Okay.” I ditched my flip-flops on the small, beach-level deck, and we set our wine glasses and the bottle on the deck’s little round table. Wes was already barefoot. Together we dragged the forest green canoe from the tall beach grasses on the side of the deck down to the water’s edge and tipped it over.

“Let me rinse it out a little,” Wes said, frowning at the dirt and spider webs inside. “Want to grab the paddles? They should be in the shed.”

“On it.” I went to the small shed on the embankment, opened it up and grabbed the oars, which stood in one corner. On the shelves were life jackets and sand toys and deflated rafts that probably had holes in them, and scratched into the wooden door among other graffiti was WP + CB. Huh. I’d never noticed that before. Who was CB? I glanced over my shoulder at Wes, who’d taken off his T-shirt and tossed it onto the sand.

My stomach full-out flipped.

Quickly, I shut the door to the shed and brought the oars down to the canoe.

Wes stood up straight and stuck his hands on his hips. He wore different sunglasses than Drew had worn, more of an aviator than a wayfarer. The body was similar, though Wes’s arms seemed more muscular, especially through the shoulder. Other things were the same and caused a rippling low in my body—the soft maroon color of his nipples, the trim waist, the trail of hair leading from his belly button to beneath the low-slung waistband of his red swim trunks. In my head I heard Tess’s voice. Arms. Chest. Shoulders. Skin. Stubble. Muscle. The smell of a man. The solidity of him.

“What’s the law on drinking and canoeing?” he asked.

What’s the law on staring at your brother-in-law’s nipples? I wondered, swallowing hard. What was wrong with me?

“I think we’re okay,” I said, handing the oars to him. Our hands touched in the exchange. “Let me grab our glasses.”

“Perfect. If you hold them, I’ll take us out.”

I retrieved the wine glasses from the table and walked carefully across the sand to the lake’s edge, taking deep, slow breaths. A sweat had broken out across my back. I was wearing a swimsuit beneath my cover up, a modest tankini, but I didn’t want to remove it. Wading ankle deep, I attempted to step into the canoe, but it wobbled beneath my foot.

“Whoa.” Wes took me by the elbow and didn’t let go until I was seated at one end, facing the other. “Okay?”

I nodded. Despite the heat, my arms had broken out in goose flesh.

“All right, here we go.” As he rowed us away from shore, the breeze picked up, cooling my face and chest and back.

“Drew and I used to have canoe-tipping contests.”

I snapped my chin down and skewered Wes with a look over the top of my sunglasses. “Don’t even think about it.”

He just grinned, the muscles in his arms and chest and stomach flexing with every stroke of the oars through the water. Momentarily mesmerized, I allowed myself the pleasure of watching him. It was okay if we were both thinking about Drew, wasn’t it?

In fact, it was only natural that I was intrigued by the sight of Wes’s body. He was my husband’s identical twin, for heaven’s sake, and I missed his physical presence in my life. I missed looking at him naked. I missed feeling the weight of him above me. I missed the feeling of being aroused by him, of my body’s responses to his touch, his kiss, his cock.

Deep in my body, the rusty mechanism of arousal creaked to life. My nipples peaked, my stomach hollowed, and something fluttered between my legs.

Oh, Jesus.

I sat up straighter, pressed my knees together, and closed my mouth, which I realized had fallen open. Hopefully I hadn’t moaned or anything. After another sip of wine, I turned my head and studied a freighter off in the distance. My heart was beating way too fast.

It’s only natural. It’s only natural.

Wes stopped paddling and set the oars in the bottom of the canoe, their handles resting against the seat in the middle. “We’ll have to bring Abby out here.”

“Definitely.” Did my voice sound normal? “She’ll love it. Here, want this?” I held his wine glass toward him and he reached out to take it. His fingers brushed mine, and I pulled my hand back as if the touch had burned me.

“Thanks.” He tipped the glass up then looked along the shore. “I’d like to find a place on the lake. Maybe not along this stretch of beach, though.”

I caught his meaning and smiled. “A little too close to home?”

“Yeah. But I don’t want to be too far away. I’d like to get a boat too.”

“What kind of boat? Drew always talked about it, but we never quite settled on one.”

“Not sure. Maybe just a little fishing boat, something to ski behind.”

“That sounds fun. Drew loved to ski.”

“We’ll have to teach Abby.”

I laughed. “You, not we. I managed to get up and stay up a few times, but I am not the expert.”

“You can teach her to cook, I’ll teach her to water ski.”

“Deal.” Separate activities seemed like a good idea.

“Breakfast was incredible.”

“Thanks.” I tucked a strand of hair that had escaped my ponytail behind my ear, but the wind blew it right back into my face. “I really like working there. I’m so glad Georgia suggested it to me.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Since spring, when they got busy. I’m not sure what I’ll do this winter when it slows down. I’m dreading it, actually. Abby will be in school full time, and it will just be me at home alone.” This was something else I hadn’t talked about with anyone, how worried I was that the gray skies and cold weather and silent hours would set me spiraling into depression. “I always thought I’d have another baby to take care of, but life saw things differently.”

“You’re still young, Hannah.”

I shook my head. “I’m really not. And I feel even older than I am.” Please don’t go Grief Police on me and tell me I’m being ridiculous, I begged him silently. This isn’t the life I chose. It was handed to me and I’m doing the best I can.

But he didn’t say anything more, just sipped his wine and looked out at the horizon. I was grateful.

“What about you?” I asked. “Think maybe you’ll get married now that you’re back? Have a family? Abby won’t have any siblings so she needs some cousins.”

“That seems to be a popular topic of discussion around here,” Wes said, shaking his head, “but I really have no idea.”

“Small town. We like to know everyone’s business.” I smiled. “Hey, what about CB? I saw your initials carved with hers on the door of the shed. Maybe she’s still around.”

He groaned. “Is that still there? Jesus. That had to be twenty years ago.”

Hugging my knees, I leaned forward. “First love?”

“Not even.” He hesitated, as if he were trying to decide whether to confess something.

“Come on,” I cajoled, carefully reaching out of the canoe, and splashing water toward him. “Tell me. I’ve been spilling my guts for an hour.”

“First kiss.”

I squealed. “And?”

He cringed. “It’s too embarrassing.”

“Wes, I had a completely humiliating breakdown in front of you last night. I got snot on my arm.”

“This is worse.”

“Get it out. You’ll feel better.”

“Let’s just say it was a very awkward, very fast experience.”

I gasped. “You lost your virginity to her?”

“No. Just my dignity.”

Laughing, I tilted my head back and felt the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, and something like joy in my heart.

It had been a long time.