It’s drizzling when I arrive in Portland. Everything looks gray and dull like I’m viewing it through a dirty windshield. It’s a far cry from the bright lights of New York City.

Everything is so slow. There is no urgency about the place; no buzz. If I screamed “fire!” right now, the people would finish their coffees before they considered moving. I already feel restless.

Laura’s three-bed townhouse is on Morning Street, only a ten-minute walk from East End Beach. We used to spend our summers on that shore, building sandcastles as kids, drinking when we were teens.

I bet Megan gets up to the same kinds of mischief now. She’s fifteen, after all. When I was fifteen, I was taking girls up to Fish Point, giving them a nudge toward the ocean, then pulling them back from the edge into my arms. I won a dozen hearts with that old trick. I would never let you fall.

Laura’s wooden slat house is baby blue. It has a small raised porch with a white fence surrounding it and a navy blue front door. There are trees planted along the street. It’s a wholesome place to live.

I don’t bother knocking on the door because I know Laura’s not home. It’s two in the afternoon, and Laura’s probably busy comforting some bride who’s realized she can’t get into her dress on the day of the wedding or ripping into some photographer who’s taking a smoke break when he should be snapping shots of newlyweds.

Megan and Jack will still be at school. If either of them came home now, I probably wouldn’t recognize them. Jack was just eighteen months old the last time I saw him, dressed in a little black outfit for his father’s funeral. Megan had been nine, a happy child before Mike died. Laura says she has an attitude these days.

I lift the corner of Laura’s welcome mat and find the promised key. I shake my head as I pick it up. People are trusting out here.

I’ve brought the first of four suitcases up, and I try to keep my grip on it as I turn the lock and push into the house, dragging it behind me over the threshold.

Inside, it smells like chicken pot pie and Jack’s sneakers. I suppose that’s what family homes smell like. My New York penthouse apartment smells like polish and whiskey.

I leave my case in the hall and take my time to stroll around the ground floor. I’ve only been here twice: at Laura and Mike’s housewarming party, and at the reception for Mike’s funeral.

The place is a little worse for wear than those times. There are scuffs on the painted calico walls, and chips of plaster that have come away here and there. There’s a stain on the burgundy rug in the living room—looks like ink. The carpets on the stairs are old; I doubt they’ve been replaced since Laura and Mike bought the place.

I recognize a stab of guilt in my gut. An entire renovation of this place would be pocket change to me, but Laura would never ask for a handout. I respect her for that—almost as much as I want to take her by the shoulders and give her a good shake for being so proud. I may not be the most heart-to-heart kind of guy, but I’ve got more than enough to share when it comes to the material things. Just ask me, Laura. I’m not a mind-reader.

After I’ve taken a quick walk around the place to refamiliarize myself, I take a second stroll around, slower this time. I give myself the chance to drink in more than just the imperfections.

Like the photos on the wall. Look at how many memories Laura has made.

There are pictures from a decade or more ago when Laura and Mike were not long married, and Megan was just four or five. The three of them are walking on some park path, Laura and Mike swinging a grinning Megan between them. Mom probably took the picture, years before her mind started deteriorating.

I’m pierced by another stab of guilt. You missed the last good years of her life, Tom.

There are more recent photos, too. Without Mike. Laura is beaming in all of them, but she looks tired. Her hair gets shorter in each picture like she can’t handle the extra inches of maintenance as time goes by. The manicure disappears; she starts to look older than thirty-five.

I pull my cell from my pants pocket to call Laura.

She answers after two rings. “TJ! Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Great! Did you find the place all right? I thought maybe you’d have forgotten where my house was.” I hear the tongue-in-cheek scolding in her voice.

I chuckle. “I remembered.”

“Long trip?”

“Not too bad.”

“Well, there’s plenty of food and sodas in the fridge; help yourself. Or else you can go to the grocery store. I was thinking we could order takeout later tonight.”

“Sounds good. I’m not sure what time I’ll be back tonight, though.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m just meeting up with someone.”

“Is it Bill? That guy’s a jerk.”

“No. Someone else.”

“Typical. I finally get you to Maine, and you’re already ditching me.”

“I’ll try not to stay out too late.”

“You’d better not.”

I hang up and switch to my messages. I write to Zoe.

—I’m here.

Her reply zips back within seconds.

—Come over. The apartment above Petals, Main Street.