The bundle cradled in Christopher’s lap squirms, opens its eyes. Carefully, he sets it on the ground.
“Awake now, I see,” he says, and leans over. He’s licked in the face for his trouble.
“Are you going to introduce me?” Holly asks.
“Meet Rosie,” he says. “Someday she’ll be a full-blooded English Labrador, when she’s all grown up. Right now she’s all paws and puddles.” He eyes the puppy ruefully. “Want to walk her?”
Holly bends down and pets the soft black fur. “Sure.”
“Good.” Christopher wraps the leash around his right gloved hand and stands. He extends the left to Holly, and when she takes it, he pulls her close, so close she can feel his heart beating.
“You must have made a lot of progress,” she stammers. “For your therapist to approve a dog, I mean.”
“Some,” he says. His breath is warm on her cheek. “Probably not enough, because I didn’t actually tell her. But I am sleeping better. Also, the plant died.”
“Rosie,” she murmurs.
He steps back, cocks an eyebrow. “Short for Rosemary. For remembrance.”
And then he pulls her really close, close enough to kiss. Which he does. She shuts her eyes and kisses him back.
When she leans against him, the locket she’s taken to wearing everywhere swings between them. She’d found it in Jane’s jewelry box, and it was the perfect size for the photo of Eden. She knows now why her daughter left it behind. That last night together, horrible as it was, was a happy memory in itself, because Holly loved her daughter enough to let her go.
At home, she’s unpacked her pictures from the attic. She’s unpacked her memories, her grief. All this time, she thought that it would kill her if she let it loose, but the opposite was true. Holding it in, pretending the bad things never happened, was what was destroying her.
The puppy wriggles between them, and Christopher finally releases Holly from his embrace. She bends to scratch Rosie’s ears, this dog named for memories.
“They stay with us, you know. The friends you lost to drugs or in the war. Ed. Isaac. Robert. Even Eden and Jane. They’re all still here.”
She sees a frisson of shock cross his face as she says their names so easily, those names she once kept locked away. But it’s true. In this moment, they are alive to her, all of them. She lets the memories in, lets them settle everywhere. In her heart, in her skin, in the very breath she takes. She’ll carry them with her the rest of her days, whatever the future brings. She’ll search for them every morning before she wakes, hoping against hope to find that in-between space in her dreams.
But Christopher is waiting for her, inviting her into the present. And as she looks at his face, at the arch of the tree branches overhead, the brilliant colors of the leaves, the memories quiet, still.
Holly takes a deep breath. Lets the cool October wind wash over her. Looks at Christopher’s outstretched arms.
She closes her eyes.
And leaps.
Acknowledgments
There aren’t enough superlatives to describe my agents, so I will just say thank you, Andrea Cirillo, Jessica Errera, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency—you are brilliant and amazing and I am so fortunate to have you on my side.
To my fantastic editor, Stephanie Kelly, thank you so much for your guidance, patience, and skill. Your hard work made this book the best it could be, and I am so grateful. And to Cassidy Sachs and Maya Ziv, for seeing it through.
To the team at Dutton, especially Lexy Cassola, Mary Beth Constant, Alice Dalrymple, Tiffany Estreicher, Amanda Walker, Emily Canders, Stephanie Cooper, Katie Taylor, Tiffani Ren, Vi-An Nguyen, and Nancy Resnick, thank you for all your work, expertise, and passion.
To the denizens of purgatory, thank you. Special shoutout to Cindy Pon, Rebecca Burrell, Bryn Greenwood, Kris Herndon, Sue Laybourn, Tracey Martin, Gretchen McNeil, and Clovia Shaw for support, advice, reading, and translation skills.
Mary Akers, much gratitude for allowing me to lean on your marine life expertise. Kelly Jaakkola, Robert Pistone, and Julie Wu, thanks for reading and sharing your expertise on past and future projects.
To the tribe of my heart, Writer Unboxed, you are my writing home. Special appreciation to Brunonia Barry, Kathryn Craft, Donald Maass, Vaughn Roycroft, Barbara Samuel, Mike Swift, Dale Whybrow, and Cathy Yardley for advice, support, reading, and encouragement. Heather Webb, you have crazy editing skills—thank you.
To my holy-moly guacamole ladies, I have mad love for you all. Jan O’Hara, Therese Walsh, and Grace Wynter, you make my writing world run. Thanks for all the help, advice, reads, and late-night-text panic attack support.