Then he slid his hand into my hair and pulled me closer, and when he kissed me, my heart hurt from happiness, if such a thing was possible. “I missed you,” I whispered against his mouth.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said, smiling.

“I guess I’ll have to throw away my Nick voodoo doll.”

He pulled back and looked at me, his eyes smiling. “Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Maybe.”

“Good start.” He kissed my chin. “Can I get an ‘I love you, Nick’?”

“I think we’ve had enough sappy proclamations for the day,” I answered.

He rolled onto his back, pulled me on top of him, his fingers trailing down my spine. “Say it, woman.”

“It. Woman.”

“God, you’re a pain,” he said, but he was laughing.

“I love you.” The words, which had never come easily, slipped out of my mouth.

His laughter stopped abruptly, and his gypsy eyes softened. “Well, then,” he whispered.

Then he kissed me again, and we didn’t talk again for a good long while, unless you counted “Oh, God, don’t stop” as real conversation.

Which I kind of did.

WHEN WE WERE STARVING and could no longer ignore Coco, who was staring at us from the foot of the bed without blinking, we showered and dressed and took her for a walk. Found a little park nearby and just sat under a tree and held hands, taking turns tossing Coco her ratty little tennis ball.

I didn’t worry about running into my mother. For some reason, I was sure I wouldn’t. Besides, I wanted to just be here, in this moment. The future was unclear, the past was a bog, but now…now was pretty wonderful.

“Harper. About Dennis,” Nick said, his expression somber.

“Dennis and I broke up before we left Glacier,” I said.

“What? Why didn’t…never mind. You broke up, huh? And why was that?”

I glanced at Nick, then threw Coco the ball for the four hundred and seventeenth time. “Well, to be honest, because I wanted to get married, he didn’t.”

Nick cocked an eyebrow. “Really? You want to marry that guy?”

“Not anymore,” I said. Thinking about Dennis still gave me a pang of guilt—that numbered list, my less-than-heartfelt marriage proposal. I was almost surprised I hadn’t done a spreadsheet on the pros and cons of our relationship or devised a mathematical formula for our success potential.

“Are you sure you’re done?” Nick asked.

I kissed the back of his hand. “Yep.”

“Really sure?” he repeated.

“Asked and answered, Your Honor. Can we proceed, or do you need constant reassurance that I’ve chosen to be with you? For the moment. If you play your cards right.”

Nick smiled. “Why do I put up with her, Lord? Come on, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

We found a little restaurant that didn’t mind a well-behaved dog and ordered dinner. Played footsies as we ate our burgers. We talked a little (and very carefully) about Chris and Willa, drifted into other subjects, places we’d been, places we wanted to see. Knowing Nick loved buildings of all types, I described the courthouse of Martha’s Vineyard, its essential New England feel, the beautiful blue ceiling, the rows of benches, curving staircase and portraits of glowering judges. Nick in turn told me about the building he hoped to build for Drachen Industries, a German investment company.

“It would be our biggest project yet,” he said. “They want it on the banks of the Volme River, and we’d use hydropower wherever we could, you know? And glass, of course. No point in being on the water if you can’t see it from everywhere.” I smiled, listening to his fast, New York way of talking, his clever hands flying. “Anyway, we’re up against Foster, and they tend to kick butt wherever they go. But it’s a little small for them, so you never know.”

“Build me something,” I said. “Right now, mister.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me, then took my plate—the restaurant had provided enough fries to feed me for a month or so—and got to work. He trimmed some of the fries, laced a lettuce leaf with a toothpick, shaved off the remainder of my bun. Occasionally, he’d glance at me for a minute, as if assessing my needs as a client, but I kept quiet, just watched his beautiful hands cut and stack. Even at a silly task like this, he looked so…brilliant, so intent and focused as he carved a door out of a pickle.

“There,” he said. “Your home. All green construction, of course.”

And there it was, a surprisingly sophisticated little house made of French fries, cantilevered and shingled, complete with windows and a little bridge leading to the front door.

“Such a talent,” I said, and he grinned.

“It’s a little small,” he said. “We’ll have to expand when the triplets are born.”

A small wriggle of warning danced through my knees. Nick, I knew from experience, never said anything that didn’t mean something. This was, after all, the guy who’d called me “wife” before he even knew my name. The man with a plan that brooked no deviation. Not that I didn’t want some kind of…something…with Nick, but as my feelings had been through the food processor in the past twelve hours, I—

“Oh, my God!” the waitress said, saving me. “Did you make that?”

We ordered coffee and a slab of chocolate lava cake for Nick. The subject of children, or the future, was not broached again. It was different, this night—in some ways, like a first date, in others, dinner with an old friend. The buzz that always hummed between us was no longer painful, now that I wasn’t pushing it away.

Maybe we could work this time.

It was raining softly when we left the restaurant, and we held hands as we walked, Coco pattering beside us, stopping to sniff a tree once in a while. The hiss of tires on the passing cars, the murmur of water in a drainpipe, the distant roll of thunder all seemed like a blessing.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Nick asked as we approached the hotel. Coco shook, droplets of rain spattering my already soaked jeans.

I thought for a moment. Work was stable for the moment; I’d emailed the clients who were affected by this week’s sojourn, and the sky wasn’t falling as far as I could tell. “I just want to be with you,” I said, and realized that not only was it true, it felt pretty damn good to say out loud.

Nick seemed to like the answer, because he pressed me against the still-warm and wet brick wall of the hotel, and kissed me till my knees didn’t work anymore. And when we went upstairs to our room, it felt like coming home.

WE WOKE UP IN A LOVELY tangle of limbs before dawn the next morning, spent quite a long time untangling, then decided to see the Sitting Bull monument on our field trip du jour. We said a fond farewell to the hotel, bought muffins and coffee from a little bakery, got some dog food, water and potato chips at the grocery store, and headed for the gravesite of the famous hero.

While I followed my New England imperative to apologize for all the wrongs committed by my ancestors and was murmuring “wicked sorry” to the statue, Nick got a phone call. As soon as he answered, I could tell something was wrong; his voice was terse and fast.

“Hello? Yes, this is he. What? When was that? How did he just walk out? Why wasn’t…oh. You did, good. No, I’m in South Dakota at the moment.” He was quiet for a minute. “No, he’s on his honeymoon. Jason should be…oh. No, that’s fine, I’m on my way.”

My heart sank. “Everything okay, Nick?”

He looked at his phone for a long minute, then turned to me. “I have to go back to New York. My father’s missing.”

“Oh, no!”

He frowned, still not looking at me. “Apparently, he wandered off early this morning when the staff was dealing with another patient. The police are looking for him, but it’s been two hours.” He raised his eyes to mine. “I’m sorry, Harper. I have to get back. As soon as possible.”

“No, no, of course. You have to go.” I paused. “I’ll come too,” I added.

His eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

Because of course, what else was I going to do? Let him go alone? I couldn’t help feeling a little sad that we had to go back so soon, just when we were together again. But it couldn’t be helped.

Knowing my Massachusetts lead foot would get us to the airport faster, I drove while he made some calls—his office, a message for Christopher, one to a friend in the city. Last, he tried his stepbrother. “Jason, this is Nick. Dad’s missing; he wandered away from the Roosevelt, and I’m in South Dakota, on my way to the airport. Call me when you get this.” He hung up and tried another number, repeated the message. Tried a third, still to no avail. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Is your stepmother still around?” I asked, vaguely recalling the unnaturally smooth and expressionless face of Lila Cruise Lowery from the two times I’d met her.

“She can’t deal,” Nick said shortly. “She said her heart was too broken to see him like this, so she hasn’t been around. Moved to North Carolina a couple years ago. And anyway, she’s on a cruise of the Greek isles at the moment.”

Right. Her reason for missing Chris and Willa’s wedding. “Where does Jason live, Nick? Is he any closer?”

“Jason lives in Philly, but he’s not picking up right now.” Coco, sensing Nick needed some sugar, licked his wrist. He gave a reluctant smile and patted her head, which she took as permission to curl up in his lap.

“They’ll find him, Nick,” I said, reaching over for his hand.

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said again.

“By the time we get to the airport, you’ll probably get a call saying he’s back, safe and sound,” I offered.

That wasn’t the case, unfortunately, but the good news was, Nick’s travel agent had found us a direct flight to New York. Coco was not pleased to have to go into her crate and looked at me mournfully through the bars before curling around her bunny with a reproachful sigh.

By far, the worst part of an emergency is the inability to act. As the plane finally took flight, Nick grew more and more tense. We held hands, but we didn’t talk much as the minutes ticked by. The no-cell-phone rule kept us in limbo as to what was happening in New York, but as soon as wheels touched tarmac, Nick was on the phone again. No sign of his father.

When we emerged into the terminal, the noise of the JFK was deafening. I’d forgotten how loud the city was, the languages, the colors, people streaming in every direction. After a week on the road through beautiful nowhere, it was a shock. Nick, however, had reverted into the fast-walking New Yorker he was. We picked up Coco and our bags, and after walking for what felt like miles, made it outside, where the heat and noise and smell of jet fuel welcomed us to New York like a punch to the head.

A car service was waiting; Nick greeted the driver by name and helped heft our bags into the trunk. Then we headed toward Manhattan, which had briefly been my home. The skyline glittered, sharp and unforgiving and beautiful in the blazing sunshine.

Poor Mr. Lowery. He may have been a callow jerk in life, but now he was a confused old man, alone in the teeth of the city. Coco seemed to agree…she whined and trembled, though it was probably in response to the roar of the jets overhead, the cars surrounding us. The driver nudged the car onto the Queensboro Bridge, ignoring the blare of horns from behind.

“So what’s the plan, Nick?” I asked. He was staring out the window, his mouth tight, eyes sharp.

“The officer in charge is waiting for us at the nursing home,” he said. “He’ll fill us in then. How my father could just wander out—” He shook his head and said no more.

Coco sat quietly on my lap, shivering occasionally as we headed up Park Avenue. It was a very posh area, of course; once I’d spent the afternoon around here, a lonely newlywed trying to fall in love with the city that was such a part of Nick. I pushed the memory aside and stared out the window, hoping against hope to see Nick’s dad.

By the time we pulled up in front of the Roosevelt Center on East 65th Street, it was three-thirty in the afternoon, a miracle of efficiency on the part of Nick’s travel agent and assistant, and still Nick’s father was missing. A detective and the director of the facility, an understandably anxious woman named Alicia, greeted us and brought us into a sitting room.

“Mr. Lowery,” she said to Nick, “you have my deepest apologies on this. Apparently, one of the new staffers inadvertently shut off the front door alarm, and—”

“We’ll deal with how this happened later on,” Nick said tersely. “What are you doing right now, where have you looked, what was my father wearing, how many people are out looking?”

They filled us in on the efforts thus far—an APB, photos, news coverage, neighborhood canvassing, K-9 unit. They handed us the flyer they were passing out, which featured a large, clear photo of Nick’s dad. My heart lurched. Mr. Lowery—Call me Ted—had aged shockingly. His hair was thin and white, and his face held a slack, sweet expression. He couldn’t have been more than sixty-five, but he looked eighty.

“Is there anywhere he might’ve wanted to go, Nick?” I asked when the briefing was over. I didn’t watch Law & Order for nothing.

“I was just about to ask that,” Detective Garcia said.

Nick ran a hand through his hair. “Did you call his old company?” he asked. “Maybe he went there.”