So in that way, maybe this place did transform me. Just not into a girl who loves flannel and pigtail braids.

When we’re together, Charlie and I don’t keep our distance or circle each other warily. We give in to every moment we can, but we don’t talk about the future. When we’re apart, though, we keep the story going over calls and texts.

You’ll spend Christmas in Sunshine Falls and I’ll spend New Year’s Eve in the city, he says.

We’ll get up early and train hop until we find a mariachi band, I say.

We’ll go to town hall meetings and involve ourselves in public feuds, then go back to the cottage and have sex all night, he says. And, We’ll do a taste test of all the dollar slices in the city.

We’ll get to the bottom of the cubed-ham salad at P.S., I say.

I believe in you so deeply, Nora, he says, but not even you can unlock the secret of that great mystery.

I’ll be so busy, I remind him. For the first couple months when I get back, I’ll be cramming in time with Libby and the girls—and, if I get the Loggia job, tapering off my agency work, off-loading my clients to another agent. Then there will be the learning curve of stepping into a new role.

Busy doesn’t scare me, Charlie says.

This, I think, is what it is to dream, and I finally understand why Mom could never give it up, why my authors can’t give it up, and I’m happy for them, because this wanting, it feels good, like a bruise you need to press on, a reminder that there are things in life so valuable that you must risk the pain of losing them for the joy of briefly having them.

Sometimes, I write to Charlie, the first act is the fun part, and then everything gets too complicated.

Stephens, he replies, for us, it’s all the fun part.

It hurts, but I let the dream go on awhile longer.

No one will ever convince me that time moves at a steady pace. Sure, your clock follows some invisible command, but it feels like it’s randomly spouting off minutes at whatever intervals suit it, because this week is a blip, and then Friday night arrives.

Another heat wave breaks, ushering in fall weather, and we set up the tent and air mattress again. While Libby and Brendan walk into town to pick up quattro stagioni pizza, the girls and I lie on our backs, watching the sky darken.

Bea tells me about everything she and Brendan have baked over the last few weeks. Tala regales us with a tale that is either the nonsense ramblings of a toddler or a faithful retelling of a Kafka novel.

After we’ve eaten, Libby suggests Brendan take the king bed to himself tonight, and he says, mid-yawn, “Oh, thank God.”

When he kisses the girls good night, they’re so sleepy they hardly react, except for Tala reaching her little arms up toward his face for a second before letting them flop down on her tummy.

He kisses Libby last, then gives me a side hug (world’s worst hugger), and I feel a bigger crush of love for him than I did the day he married my sister.

“What the hell,” Libby whispers, laughing. “Are you crying?”

“Shut up!” I toss a pillow at her. “You broke my eye muscles. I can’t stop it now.”

“You’re crying because you love Brendan so much,” she teases. “Admit it.”

“I love Brendan so much,” I say, laughing through the tears. “He’s nice!”

Libby’s laughter escalates. “Dude, I know.”

Tala grumbles and rolls over, her arm flinging across her eyes.

Libby and I lie back side by side and hold each other’s hands as we study the improbable number of constellations.

“You know what?” Libby whispers.

“Probably,” I say, “but try me.”

“Even if you can’t see them back in Manhattan, all of those stars will be over you too. Maybe every night, we look up at the sky at the same time.”

“Every night?” I say, dubious.

“Or once a week,” she says. “We get on the phone, and we look up at the sky, and then we’ll know we’re still together. Wherever we go.”

I swallow a rising lump. “Mom will be with you too,” I say. “Just because you’re leaving New York, it doesn’t mean you’re leaving her behind.”

Libby snuggles closer, resting her head on the divot of my shoulder, the smell of crushed blackberries still lingering in her hair. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just,” she says, “thank you.”

For once, I don’t dream about Mom.

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35

THE CENTER OF town is a wonderland of string lights and bunting, long tables covered in pretty gingham cloths and loaded with pies. A dance floor sits in the square, and a branded Coors truck sells beer behind the gazebo. Next to it, Amaya and Mrs. Struthers hawk donated wine, every glass poured with a heavy hand. I doubt they have the permits for most of this stuff, but then again, Libby made it sound like just about everyone at that town hall meeting was involved in one way or another in making this happen, so there’s a small chance this is all aboveboard.

Brendan, Libby, the girls, and I stop by Goode Books to catch Dusty’s event, but the place is packed and we don’t linger long. Charlie and Sally arranged all the new furniture—along with the old folding chairs—into rows in the café, with Dusty’s videoconference projected onto the far wall and her audio playing through the shop’s speakers so that even the overflow of visitors could hear while they shopped.

The girls are bouncing off the walls, so we take them over to Mug + Shot’s pop-up soda shoppe for frothy pink cows.

“This is a huge mistake,” Libby notes as she passes the red-soda-and-ice-cream-plus-whipped-cream concoctions to Bea and Tala.

“A delicious one, though,” I point out.

“And,” Brendan adds, dropping his voice, “they always crash after a sugar blitz.”

Back in the town square, we gorge ourselves: on popcorn, on chocolate pie and rhubarb, on sugar-dusted pecans that make me think of cold mornings in Central Park, and on one local wine that has to be the worst I’ve ever had, along with another that’s actually pretty good.

We dance with the girls to pop songs Bea somehow knows better than Libby or I, and as the night wears on and total darkness falls, bringing a slight chill with it, Tala falls asleep in Brendan’s arms while he and Clint Lastra are talking about catch-and-release fishing spots.

Brendan’s never fished in his life, but he’s determined to try, and Clint’s happy to get him started.

Libby’s going to be happy here, I think as I watch them from a distance. She’s going to be so fucking happy, and that will make the distance bearable, almost.

She and Bea slip off to see if they can find some sweatshirts or blankets in Brendan’s rental car, but I hang back, watching Gertie and her girlfriend, the bickering couple from town hall, and a dozen other pairings sleepily sway on the dance floor.

I spot Shepherd in a gap in the crowd, and he gives me a sheepish smile and wave before ambling over. “Hey there,” he says.

“Hey,” I say. After an awkward moment, I begin, “I’m sorry about—” right as he’s saying, “Just wanted to say—”