Chapter 23
I’ve always pictured Mick living nearby, but twenty minutes into the drive, we’re still coasting down a narrow two-lane highway, hemmed by woods and farmland.
Finally, we turn down a gravel road that winds through the trees and opens into a sunlit clearing.
Mick’s ranch-style home is understated but stylish—dark wood siding, steel-framed windows, and solar panels gleaming on the roof.
“Your house is lovely,” I say, struck by how much it looks like him—solid, quiet, deliberate.
“Thank you,” Mick says.
“Erin said you built it yourself?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Well, I had a contractor.”
“Did you use an architect?” I ask as we get out of the car.
“No. I just drew it up,” he says, leading me along the stepping-stone path across the lawn.
“I’m impressed,” I say.
The front porch is tidy and inviting: two dark green Adirondack chairs, a slim iron table with a cordless lamp, and a row of terra-cotta pots spilling ferns. A welcome mat rests between a pair of work-worn boots and a grass broom.
Mick opens the door without a key. A large gray dog bolts through the opening.
“Easy, boy,” Mick says, snapping his fingers as the dog bounds toward Phoebe, tail thudding against the boards.
She drops to her knees, laughing, wrapping her arms around his sleek neck.
“I missed you, buddy,” she says.
“Handsome dog,” I say, glancing at Mick. “What’s his name?”
“Cash.” He gives me a pointed look. “After Johnny.”
I smile, remembering how he used to sing “I Walk the Line” on late-night drives, making me feel like June Carter.
“Is he a Weimaraner?”
Mick nods. “Don’t judge me for not rescuing.”
“Never,” I say, as Cash jumps up, paws on my stomach.
“Down!” Mick snaps at him. “That’s rude. You know better.”
“Jeez. He was just saying hi,” Phoebe says.
“Yeah. And if he did that to your grandmother, she’d need a hip replacement.”
“Well, he didn’t do it to Gram,” she fires back, full sass. Erin’s sass.
Cash trots off the porch, patrolling the yard.
“All right. Who’s ready for burgers?” Mick asks.
“Me!” Phoebe says, charging through the door.
Mick gives me a look. “After you,” he says.
I walk in.
The interior is warm and open, the kitchen and family room divided by a long farmhouse table.
Exposed beams cross the ceiling. A broad stone fireplace anchors the space.
Above it hangs a sepia photo of an old Chevy truck.
A leather sectional is arranged around a coffee table stacked with handsome books.
“It’s really nice,” I say, glancing around.
“Just a cabin in the woods,” he says.
We take off our coats and drape them on the back of a chair.
“Wait until you see out back,” Phoebe says as she chases Cash around the room. “There’s a sauna, a hot tub, and an outdoor shower!”
I raise my eyebrows and smile. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah! Wanna see?”
“Slow down.” Mick laughs. “Let’s get something to drink first.”
“Do you have lemonade?” she asks.
He nods as she runs to the fridge, pouring herself a tall glass.
“What can I get you?” he asks me.
“Water’s fine.”
He reaches around Phoebe to grab me a Poland Spring.
“You shouldn’t buy bottled water,” she says. “It’s bad for the planet.”
“I make an exception for out-of-town visitors.”
“Fine,” she says. “As long as you recycle.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He washes his hands, then pulls ingredients from the fridge.
“Come on, Billie,” Phoebe says. “Let me show you the backyard. It’s so cool!”
I smile, put my coat back on, and follow her outside. She plays the proud tour guide—leading me to the shower, complete with soap, a loofah, and a bottle of Dove 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner.
Next, the hot tub, where she flips on the lights and jets, the water bubbling up in a roar. “Isn’t it cool?” she shouts over the noise.
“Very!” I shout back.
She turns the buttons off, then takes me to the cedar sauna, opening the door to reveal the water bucket and ladle.
“You can turn the timer on for as long as you want,” she says, twisting the dial as the infrared light hums on. “But Mick only lets me do five minutes because he says kids overheat faster.”
“He’s correct.”
“Now can you see why I like coming over here?”
“Definitely,” I say, envious of the ordinary time he’s had with her over the years.
She stares at me for a long beat, then says, “Mom said you and Mick used to be boyfriend-girlfriend.”
“Yes. But that was a long time ago.”
“Why’d you break up?”
I glance toward the house. Through the window, Mick is bent over a cutting board, chopping.
“Distance,” I say, swallowing. “I moved to New York for medical school and my residency—”
“What’s a residency?”
“It comes after med school. It’s like on-the-job training to become a doctor.”
She nods, her brow furrowed. “Mom said you should never have broken up.”
“Your mom was a wonderful friend to both of us.”
Phoebe takes a shaky breath, her eyes overflowing.
“Oh, honey. C’mere,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her.
Within seconds she’s clinging to me, sobbing: I want my mom. I want my mom.
I look up and see Mick hurrying toward us with a platter of burger patties. He sets it on the table and takes over, holding her in his arms. I step back, mumbling that I’ll be back.
Inside, I find the powder room. I lock the door and grip the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection. I give myself a minute, then take a deep breath and smooth my hair.
When I return to the kitchen, I look out the window. Phoebe and Mick stand side by side, flipping burgers. She looks up at him, talking a mile a minute, their rhythm restored.
I open the fridge, looking for something stronger than water. I spot a six-pack of Miller Lite and grab a bottle, twisting off the top. The first sip tastes like college—day-drinking at Badger tailgates, late nights on the Terrace, always with Mick.
The front door opens. A tall, slim woman steps in. She’s wearing flared jeans, a camel pea coat, and sleek black boots. It has to be Mick’s girlfriend.
My chest tightens—an old instinct.
“Hello,” I say, my voice a shade too high.
She jumps, hand to chest.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay,” she says, her voice light and gracious. “You must be Billie?”
I nod and force a smile.
“I’m Lena,” she says, smiling back at me. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I had to miss the service—I had a work thing.”
I nod, wondering if she knew Erin—and why Erin never mentioned her. “Mick and Phoebe are in the backyard making burgers,” I say, gesturing toward the window.
She glances outside. “I’ve got to run. Could you just give him this prescription?” she says, pulling a small bag from her purse and setting it on the counter.
“Sure,” I say, relieved she isn’t staying for dinner.
“Thank you, Billie.” She gives me a final smile, then turns and sails out the front door.