Love You More(68)

Mick thanks her, and we wander past a free coffee and flavored water kiosk, then check out a small café stocked with pastries and juices. Next to it is a pleasant dining room with a stone fireplace.

“Look, Feebs. Fireside dining,” I say.

She smiles as we keep walking down a hallway, stopping when we get to a small movie theater. Rows of chairs face a big screen, and flanking it are shelves stuffed with worn paperbacks.

Phoebe drifts toward them, running her fingers along the spines. She pulls out a large-print copy of Anne of Green Gables and looks up at me with big eyes. “Mom read this to me,” she whispers.

“That feels like a good sign,” I say.

“What do you think, Feebs?” Mick asks.

“It’s nice,” she says. “But it feels like a hotel. Not a home.”

“We can make her room feel cozy and personal,” I say.

“But she won’t have her own furniture, will she?” Phoebe asks.

“Not all of it,” I say. “But we can bring some of her favorite things.”

“Like her rocking chair?”

“I bet there’ll be room for that,” I say, hoping I’m right. “And we’ll hang family photos and bring her yellow quilt.”

Phoebe hesitates, her brow furrowed. “Couldn’t she just stay in her house with a nurse or something?”

“It’s safer for her to be here. The staff is trained to deal with memory problems, and they’re here around the clock.”

I glance at Mick, but he’s already moving toward the lobby. His jaw is set, and his eyes are focused, like he didn’t hear her question—or maybe because he did.



* * *



— When we get to Mick’s, he opens the garage door and moves efficiently—grabbing several fishing poles and his tackle box, then hitching his small bass boat to the back of the truck. He opens the door to let Cash out of the house, and he hops into the backseat with Phoebe and Hank.

As we wind down the driveway, Mick rests his arm along the back of the bench seat, his fingers hovering behind my shoulder.

Before turning onto the main road, he pauses and scrolls on his phone, then sets it on the console. The first chords of “Born to Run” pour from the speakers.

My pulse jumps, sending me back in time to long drives through the countryside.

We make our way to the lake, windows down, the air scented with pine, cedar, and fresh earth. Trees crowd the road, sunlight flickering across the pavement, until the view opens and the water appears. I catch my breath, the lake a sheet of blue-green glass beneath the late-afternoon sun.

At the public launch, Phoebe and I get out with the dogs and watch as Mick coasts the truck down the sloping ramp, the boat rocking in its harness.

He shifts into park, steps out, and frees the transom straps, loosening the bow hook before bracing a foot on the trailer. He gives the boat a clean shove. As it slides free with a soft rush, he walks it down the line and ties two quick half hitches.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the clean, mineral scent of childhood.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, then jogs to the truck. He gets in, pulls away from the dock, and parks in the lot.

When he returns, the dock shifts under his weight, rocking as he climbs into the boat. The dogs leap in after him. He offers a hand to Phoebe, but she refuses, getting in without help.

His hand still out, he looks at me. I take it and step onto the boat, settling into a seat in the back. Mick unties the line and guides us from the shallows. The motor’s hum vibrates into the soles of my shoes. Cash leans over the gunwale, nose working the air, while Hank plants himself at the bow, ears pricked.

We putter forward. As we reach the reeds, Mick drops anchor.

“You remember how to cast?” he asks Phoebe.

“Of course I do,” she says.

He knots the leader with a flick of his hand, then passes her the rod.

She adjusts her grip, and he nods.

“Bet I catch one first,” Phoebe says.

“I like the confidence,” Mick says.

I close my eyes, feeling the boat sway in the slow rhythm of the water.

“Hey, Billie. You wanna try?” Mick asks after a while.

I open one eye and smile. “You know the answer to that.”

“What’s the answer?” Phoebe asks.

“Billie prefers to watch,” he says.

“Yup,” I say, as the cool breeze skims my face.

A few minutes later, Phoebe squeals. “Got one!” she shouts, reeling it in. “Told ya I’d be first!”

“You sure did,” Mick says, helping her unhook a small perch before laying it in her hands.

“Hey, Billie! Take a picture!” she says.

I snap a few photos before she tosses the fish back into the lake. It sails through the air in a flash of silver.

“All right. Time to get down to business,” Mick says.

He works a spinnerbait in—twitch, pause—then traces a quick figure eight at the side of the boat. On the second loop, a muskie shoots out from the weeds. Mick stays calm as he angles it wide and brings it to the net.

Phoebe applauds, whooping. They briefly admire the catch before Mick tips the net.

“Back you go,” he says as the fish splashes into the water.

“You forgot to take a picture,” Phoebe says.