~ Twelve ~

Do you remember when
things were really hummin’?
Come on, let’s twist again.
Twisting time is here.

—CHUBBY CHECKER

“Let’s Twist Again”

The Whitfields’ farm was spread out over a hundred acres and it felt more like two hundred the day Frank Whitfield’s tractor broke down on the far side of his land and he had to make his way back to the farmhouse on foot. The Whitfield estate was built a century earlier a half mile off Scatterfield Road, where the land was hilliest. It was done this way because hills were less farmable, but the effect was that the house stood out like a monument, surrounded by a rolling landscape and a sprawling, broad-branched oak tree.

Several barns had been raised on the property over the decades. The smallest of these was approximately the size of a three-car garage. The largest barn stood three stories tall and had been painted barn red, with a brown shingled roof the color of auburn hair.

Acres of apple trees on the estate’s horizon were sketched in mystery by the setting sun. The untamed woods growing on either side of the river gave the farm just enough mystery to hearken visitors back to the fictional world of Ichabod Crane and a party he attended two hundred years before. Perhaps more than one party guest would recall the night of Ichabod’s ghostly encounter with a headless horseman on his ride home, and the grim reality that he was never heard from again.

A round, bright moon hung between the barn and the farmhouse as Emma and Michael lead a three-car convoy up the Whitfields’ long, dirt driveway. Michael parked his truck in an open field where cars, trucks, and minivans were parked willy-nilly, an impromptu community undertaking. Bo and Christina parked his Blazer next to them, and Jim and Samantha claimed the next spot for their minivan.

The Whitfields had decorated the barn with care. Its large doors were thrown open and a welcoming yellow light emanated from inside. Colored Christmas lights strung on nails glowed around the square entrance making it clear to first-time guests which barn held the party.

The night air was cool and crisp as they walked through the grassy field. It was the first moment of twilight. Samantha threaded her arm through Jim’s as they walked.

“I’m just amazed at how the Whitfields are able to put all this together every year,” Samantha said. “It must take them weeks of planning and days just to do all the decorating.”

“It looks amazing,” Christina added, adjusting her gaze from the barn to Bo hiking through the field beside her. Bo’s everyday workman’s attire naturally resembled the Western look of a barn dance. Christina took hold of his arm, giving it a squeeze as they walked.

Michael and Emma walked side by side too, but with a buffer zone between them that made physical contact unlikely. Michael had worked at the Madison farm all day Friday and Saturday morning. He and Emma had chatted a bit, but only briefly.

Mrs. Whitfield stood inside the open barn doors greeting guests as they arrived. Esther Whitfield was a lifelong farmer’s wife, committed to keeping on with the old traditions, and to whom entertaining came as second nature. She’d started hosting “the great barn dances,” as she called them, several years earlier when she had begun to worry that Juneberry was losing its sense of community. She crafted the dance idea based on a memory she had of going to barn dances as a teenager when the men came back to the farm after fighting the war in Europe.

“Welcome, everyone. Won’t you come in?”

“Mrs. Whitfield, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the farm so lovely,” said Christina.

“You know, this old barn dance has given us an excuse to dress the old place up and have some fun. We all need a night just to enjoy our neighbors and have a good time.

“Emma, how’s your father doing?” Mrs. Whitfield asked. “I felt so badly when I’d heard the news.”

“He’s doing much better, thank you. I’ll tell him you said hello.”

“Please do, and tell him our prayers are with him. Now, go on inside and help yourselves to some food. There’s cider and doughnuts, apples from the orchard, cakes, and lots of fresh pies.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Whitfield.”

Emma turned and whispered in Samantha’s ear.

“How did she know who I was?”

“Mrs. Whitfield knows everybody, Emma.”

Inside the cavernous barn, brown and orange paper streamers floated down from the plank rafters. Bales of straw had been stacked around the edges for seating in addition to a dozen card tables with folding chairs set up underneath the loft. Loose straw had been strewn across the barn’s makeshift dance floor giving the wood planks a Gilley’s-honky-tonk feel. In the far corner the Whitfields’ youngest son, Tommy, acted as DJ behind a long table set up with audio equipment and post-mounted speakers.

Along the side wall, two banquet tables covered with pumpkin orange tablecloths displayed the pies, cakes, punch, and plates all arranged with care. The most popular objects in the room were two space heaters radiating heat throughout the barn. Forty people were already milling around, making the large space feel cozy and full of life. Country music poured through the speakers.

“I love country music,” Bo said. “It gets you feeling all Cracker Barrel inside.”

“I’ll bet they don’t do this in Boston, Emma,” Christina joked.

“Not for the last hundred years.”

“How about a glass of cider, ladies?” Bo asked.

“Perfect!”

Michael, Bo, and Jim swaggered to the refreshment tables dressed from hat to boots like cowboys while Samantha, Emma, and Christina searched for a place to perch. Tommy Whitfield switched on his microphone and brought it to his mouth.

“Ah, as you can tell we’re not real formal around here,” he said. “If you’ve got a request, just ask and I’ll try to play it for you. Otherwise, I’ll just try to keep the place hopping.”

With the timing of a pro, Tommy brought up the lively sound of twin fiddles underneath his short and sweet introduction, and the room came alive. The men returned with six cups of apple cider, setting them on the table, and Christina jumped up to take Bo by the hand.

“Come on, let’s dance!”

Before Bo had a chance to voice his agreement or objection, he and Christina joined a dozen other couples pouring into the middle of the barn to form a country line dance. Samantha and Jim soon followed, she doing her best to teach her rhythmically challenged husband the four basic steps to country line dancing in the equivalent of the slow lane on the dance floor.

Emma scooted closer to Michael, who leaned against the barn’s post support beam closest to their table. His white cowboy hat threw an angled shadow across his eyes.

“Do you still know how to dance, Michael?” she asked.

He tilted his head back, lifting the shadows away from his face.

“I’ve always been more of a slow dancer,” he said, looking and sounding like a real cowboy. “I like to think what I do has a little more soul.”

Emma admired the way he looked just then, standing there in the glow of red and green lights in jeans, white shirt, cowboy hat, and a larger-than-life oval belt buckle any rodeo rider would be proud to call his own.

They watched the other couples dancing in rhythm and step. The irresistible sound of a new song brought more partygoers to the dance floor. The room was full now, the music loud and thumping, and the mood festive. Jim was just getting the hang of the Electric Slide when Samantha needed a break.

“He’s trying his best out there,” Samantha laughed. “But I think he’d better keep his day job.”

“Are you okay?” Emma asked Samantha, whose cheeks looked a little flushed and splotchy.

“I think so. I just got a little worked up.”

Samantha sat down with Jim at the table and drank some apple cider. Emma pulled out the metal folding chair next to hers and sat.

“I had no idea Bo could dance so well,” Emma said, leaning in so Samantha could hear her over the music. “They look great together.”

“She thinks he’s Garth Brooks and Patrick Swayze all wrapped up in one,” Samantha said.

Christina and Bo line danced in perfect rhythm on the dance floor through the first three songs. On the fourth, Tommy Whitfield slowed things down with a country waltz.

Michael leaned down to whisper in Emma’s ear. She got up without answering and took Michael’s hand. He led her to an open spot in the dance floor and touched his hand to her waist. Emma rested hers lightly on top of Michael’s shoulder while their other hands clasped together. Slowly, soulfully they began to move with the music. She could feel strength and warmth in the way he held her hand.

The singer’s voice was familiar as love itself, and Emma recognized the song; she’d always loved it. Michael had sung it to her once that summer sitting outside at her father’s farm, watching for falling stars. She wondered if he remembered as they waltzed along in their own private space.

“Are you lonesome tonight?

Do you miss me tonight?

Are you sorry we drifted apart?”

Her eyes locked with his and Emma couldn’t help but think how the song’s famous lines mirrored their own story.

“You’re right,” Emma said. “This dancing definitely has some soul to it.”

“Yep,” Michael said, in the relaxed voice of a cowboy. “Slow dancing’s like that, ma’am. In fact, anything you want to see turn out right you gotta take slow.”

“I hope you’re not saying great dancing is just about tempo,” Emma said, having fun with their banter. “I think it’s all about knowing you’re dancing with the right partner.”

“Well, some would argue that the secret to truly great dancing is all in having an ear for hearing the music,” Michael said. “If one of the partners doesn’t know it’s time to dance, they’ll both just be sitting it out until it’s too late to move.”

Emma smiled at him, surprised by how effortless it was to be with Michael. It’d been that way at dinner, and while they carted furniture from out of the spare bedroom together. It had been effortless that entire summer; like that time they fell asleep in each other’s arms out by the lake one afternoon. She could still feel the soft fleece of the blanket against her face and smell the coconut scent of the suntan lotion.

“I’m sorry for what I said, Michael. I mean, not that any of it made much sense. You deserve my gratitude, not my clumsy attempts at trying to clarify things. Would you forgive me?”

“Emma, would it hurt your feelings if I said you were like a carrot on the end of a stick? Every time I make a move toward you, you get one step farther away. Forgiveness is easy when it comes to you. It’s all the rest that’s hard.”

“What’s hard?” she asked.

Michael paused, questioning just how much he should tell her.

“Doin’ the right thing, Emma,” he finally said. “It’s the easiest, hardest thing there is.”

They swayed and turned inside the pulse of the waltz. Tommy segued one slow classic into another, newer country ballad. Emma and Michael remained on the dance floor moving in time with the music, while Bo and Christina joined Jim and Samantha at their table. They all watched Emma and Michael continue slow dancing.

“What do you think of Michael and Emma tonight?” Samantha finally asked.

“I don’t know what to think,” Christina said between sips of cider. “They look good together, I know that.”

Samantha turned to Christina, raising her eyebrows, conferring not so subtly to her that she’d missed the most important point of her question.

“She’s going back in a few days,” Samantha said, emphasizing each of her words. “He’s still going to be here.”

“I think the hopeless romantic in me believes love can make it somehow,” Christina said.

“Christina, can’t you see he’s falling in love with her? I love Emma too, but there’s every chance she’ll break his heart when she goes back to Boston. Again! He’ll be stuck in Juneberry doing the same old thing, wishing he could see her, and she’ll be getting on with her life. Doing all the exciting things she gets to do.”

The song began to fade as the overhead lights came on. It was a stark, raw light that lit up everything. Michael and Emma held each other’s hands for a moment or two after the song ended.

“You’re right, that’s a possibility,” Christina said. “But when you love somebody, things don’t always go the way you want them to. Sometimes you have to stick through adversity and not give up. You know, I think love can be a test. When it gets difficult, that’s when we learn if our love is real, and if we have the devotion to be true to it in spite of all the heartaches.”

“Are we talking about the same thing here?” Samantha asked. “I just don’t want to see him get hurt.”

Mrs. Whitfield took Tommy’s microphone, untwirling the cord. Emma and Michael wandered back to the table where the group sat.

“If I may have your attention,” Mrs. Whitfield began, “I want to welcome everyone here tonight. Mr. Whitfield and I hope you’re all having a good time.”

The barn lit up with hoots and hollers of appreciation from the seventy or so guests. Men took off their cowboy hats and raised them in the air. Bo stuck two fingers between his teeth, letting out a loud, clear whistle until the applause ended.

“We’re not going to stop the dance for long, I just wanted to let those of you who are interested know, Mr. Whitfield is setting up the tractor and trailer behind the barn right now. Hayrides will be starting in just a few minutes. One word of advice if you want to go out on a hayride, make sure to bundle up! It’s getting chilly outside.”

Mrs. Whitfield waved to the crowd with both hands before exiting the stage.

“Where does the hayride go?” Emma asked.

“Part of the ride is out in the open air, and part of it goes through the spooky orchard,” Christina said with delight.

“I know what I’ll be doing for the next forty minutes,” Bo said.

Christina turned to face him.

“How do you know I want to do that?” She feigned mock irritation.

“Christina, the word hayride has your name written all over it.”

“Yee-haw, you’ve got that right. Come on, baby!”

Christina pulled Bo up from the table. They grabbed their coats and bundled up for an extended ride in the cold night air. From her seat at the table, Emma watched Christina take Bo’s hand as they made their way outside. It was the smallest of romantic gestures, but something in it stirred her. She thought about how much Christina wanted what she couldn’t have, but she did have Bo for the dance.

“They are such a cute couple,” Emma said.

The music started again and the lights went down. Partygoers ambled back on to the dance floor illuminated entirely by strings of lights hung and wrapped around nails and rafters.

“They were made for each other,” Samantha said so that Emma could hear her. She locked eyes with Jim’s as if to tell him, just like us.

o o o

The exhaust from Frank Whitfield’s John Deere tractor launched billowing smoky puffs away into the night air. The temperature had fallen to somewhere in the low forties. Bo and Christina felt the chill instantly as they left the comfort of the heated barn.

A flatbed trailer as tall as Bo’s chest was hitched to the tractor. Bales of straw lined the edges, and loose hay filled the middle two feet deep. An old wooden ladder had been propped up against the side of the trailer for riders to climb into the back, and as they did, they sank into the stacks of hay.

Bo and Christina found a spot in the front on Farmer Whitfield’s right. They sat and leaned against a bale of straw facing the others.

“I just love this kind of stuff, Bo. I don’t know why the others didn’t follow our lead.”

“Not everyone’s as adventurous as you are.” Bo pulled a piece of straw out of Christina’s hair.

She snuggled closer, tighter against Bo’s side for warmth. The tractor’s engine sputtered, and Farmer Whitfield, dressed in a thick armor of warm winter clothing—hat with flaps, wool scarf, thick gloves—shifted the tractor into first gear, jerking the trailer forward.

Bo saw from the expression of childlike delight on Christina’s face, it was the little things in life that made her the happiest. The faces of the other partygoers on the hayride were soon in shadows as the tractor moved them out into the fields.

“I’m glad you’re as adventurous as me,” she said, snuggling her face in the warmth of his neck.

“Christina,” Bo said, wrapping his arms around her. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.”

They watched as the scenery around them changed, drawing them back to an older, simpler time. Red-painted barns and tall silos, white-roofed chicken coops and grain storage containers, cows standing in the fields, their breath looking like fog in the moonlight.

The rumbling chug of the tractor drowned out the sound of all other conversations aboard the hayride. It made the whispers between them private.

“You seem especially happy tonight,” Bo said.

“I love being outdoors. I love being with our friends, having us all together,” Christina breathed. “And I love being with you.”

She punctuated her response with a kiss to Bo’s cheek.

“Sounds like you’ve got everything you need,” he said.

Christina looked up at Bo, into eyes that were the color of faded denim. “I just want the one piece that’s missing.”

The hayride jostled over a bumpy trail that led into the shadowy orchard. The apple trees’ cragged branches stretched out to the trail as if to reach the riders. Moonlight perched the color of bone on the edges of leaves, illuminating them. The tractor turned wide, its headlights chasing rabbits off the orchard trail.

“Let me rephrase that,” she said in a soft voice of confidence. “I want to wake up every morning with you sleeping beside me.”

Christina lived with a conviction that if ideas could be expressed in words, they could be understood, but Bo liked things he could touch, see. He needed Christina to explain her feelings in ways he could wrap his mind around. He knew she was a jewel, long before his dad had pointed it out to him that first Thanksgiving. Christina was smart and beautiful and successful, but that wasn’t Bo’s attraction or his problem. He knew how rare a thing it was to really click with someone. He knew he loved Christina more than his own life, that he’d never stop loving her, and that he’d never be loved more by someone else. But Bo remembered the bitter marriage of his youth. How he’d invested himself heart, body, and soul to its continued existence, and how he eventually lost himself and then his son in the bargain.

“As long as I’m the last man you kiss before you go to sleep at night, we’re good. You aren’t seeing someone else after I drop you off, are you?” he joked, doing his best to fake a serious expression.

“Yes, Bo. I’m keeping him in my laundry room.”

Christina turned her soft, cold face toward him in the darkness. Her eyes closed in the dark night, and she kissed him.

Farmer Whitfield turned the tractor down the final loop of the shadow-filled trail, its headlights piercing into the apple trees like beams of daylight penetrating an unsuspecting night. Christina stretched to whisper in his ear again.

“Hey, after the dance why don’t we invite everyone back to the house? We can have hot chocolate or cider, anything warm.”

“Sure, if people still want to do things. I think you’re just getting cold.” Bo tilted his head back, staring into the night and gauging the distance back to the heated barn. Across a field of cold earth, he could see the lights in the distance. Not even Mrs. Whitfield was waiting for them.

“I am cold, Bo, but I think it could be fun. I love these times when we’re all together,” Christina confided. “And I love the times when it’s just the two of us. You know I love you, right?

“I think so.”

“You know so. I couldn’t make anything more clear.”

Bo kept silent. He enjoyed listening to Christina’s voice. The way she expressed her passion, her enthusiasm for life, feeling little puffs of breath on his neck when she spoke.

Bo looked into the deep pools of Christina’s eyes, almost certain he could see the pale clouds above reflected in them. Or maybe they, too, were like piercing beams of daylight penetrating into an unsuspecting night.

She remained still, a warm unblinking statue before him. He knew she wanted more from him, and even he believed she deserved it. In that moment, he allowed himself to wonder how it’d be, if he fell into her eyes. Would he drown there, or would they become the passageway to a marital island paradise he believed in once long ago?

He kissed her again, a deep long kiss, knowing full well the cost of falling into her, and the deepness of her love for him.

The tractor pulled under the bright outdoor lights of the farm. Farmer Whitfield shifted into neutral and stomped down the parking brake. He climbed down from the tall seat of the John Deere, stacking several bales into a makeshift staircase for the riders. Passengers debarked almost instantly, darting into the barn’s warmth and the company of friends happy to see them return.

Once inside, Christina walked up to Frank Whitfield, who was opening his wool burgundy scarf, coughing into his right hand. He looked like a 1950s movie actor, one of those foursquare men who acted in Westerns and who could survive harsh winters whether on film or in real life.

“Mr. Whitfield, that was by far the best hayride I have ever been on.” Christina extended her hand to shake his. The color returned to Frank’s face and he smiled like he’d just gotten a compliment from one of his granddaughters.

“Well, thank you, thank you,” he said. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

Bo took Christina by the hand again. The party looked to be breaking up. The overhead lights were on now, Tommy had stepped away from the DJ table, and the music had stopped.

“Is anyone in the mood for a late-night hangout session at my place?” Christina asked, now that the three couples were back together again at the same table. “We can make it the first official lighting of the fireplace.”

Samantha looked at her watch.

“Oh, it’s so late, hon. We’ll see each other again tomorrow. You’re both still coming to our ladies tea party after church?” Samantha asked Christina and Emma.

“Oh, yes. What can we bring, Samantha?” Emma asked.

“Nothing at all. Just plan to meet over at my place around one o’clock.”

“Yes, it’s getting kind of late, Christina,” Emma said. “Maybe we should all call it a night. Who all are you expecting at the tea tomorrow, Samantha?”

“It’s just going to be a small group. You, Christina, my daughter Beth, my friend Janette, and me. Do you know Janette Kerr, our resident movie star?”

“She wasn’t a movie star, Samantha,” Jim said, tearing the corners off a paper napkin left on the table.

“She was too! She made movies in Hollywood. I’d say that’s a movie star.”

“I’ve never seen one of her movies.”

“Yes, you did,” Samantha said. “Remember that old Western you and Noel were watching with that gunfight in the saloon? She was the blonde who worked there.”

“Oh yeah, okay,” Jim said. “Did she have any speaking lines?”

“She did in other movies,” Samantha added, standing. “Anyway, she’s the nicest lady and she goes to our church so I invited her to come.”

Jim fished his keys out of his pocket.

Samantha reached for her purse on the floor beside her.

“Sorry if we’re being party poopers,” she said. “I don’t go very long without running out of steam anymore.”

“Oh, we totally understand,” Christina said, summing up the feelings of the group. The three couples made their way out the way they’d come in. They thanked Mrs. Whitfield as a group, shaking her hand, before walking out into the cold, dark fields together.

The night air felt colder after being inside the barn all night. Jim put his arm around Samantha while they walked, stepping over the ankle-tall grass that was wet with fog and rain. Christina and Bo laughed and held hands. Emma and Michael walked side by side, talking in a quiet, private conversation. Christina looked back and thought she saw Emma reaching out to hold Michael’s hand, but it was impossible to be certain in the misty, dark fog.

o o o

Michael parked his truck in the dirt driveway underneath a grand oak tree that swayed and creaked above them, shaking and dropping its leaves in the autumn night. The dashboard lights gave off a soft glow and the heater hummed warmth into the cab. Emma clicked on the radio and turned the volume down, the country music becoming a quiet accompaniment to their good night.

“So, did you enjoy your refresher course in South Carolina good times?” Michael asked.

“I did,” Emma said, turning toward him.

“I’m glad we went. It may have been because—like square dancing—everyone needs a partner, but it was nice.”

Michael studied her face, tinted blue by the dashboard lights, trying to read her thoughts. It had been twelve years since he last thought he knew what she was thinking, but then he’d been proven wrong. Twelve years. They’d lived such different lives. “It’s been nice having you home. Your dad is glad to have you back. Samantha and Christina seem to feel the same way.”

“Everyone’s been so good to me.”

Emma reached for Michael’s hand.

“Especially you. You’re helping my dad, you made me dinner, you took me to the dance. Thank you, Michael.”

“You’re welcome. It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Michael.”

Emma folded one leg under her and leaned toward him. “I didn’t know what to expect when I came here, but everyone’s made me feel welcome. No, that’s not the right word,” she said, pressing her index finger against her lips. “They’ve overlooked my sudden departure and been gracious in a way that’s more than what I deserve. Why are they doing that? Why are you?”

Michael rested his left hand on the steering wheel, leaned against the driver’s door. He sighed.

“Do you really not know?” he finally said, letting his question hang in the air like a ball tossed up that wasn’t going to fall back down.

“I …” she said, when she realized he was finished with his answer. “No, I don’t. It doesn’t make sense. Tell me why.”

“No.”

“No? Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because you need to figure it out for yourself.”

“Okay, I can accept that. But there is an answer, right?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Michael was quietly tapping his fingers against the steering wheel along with the background music. “You’ll figure it out. Eventually you’ll understand.”

Emma drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“What can I say? I’ll try to figure it out. You’re right, I mean, that’s the least I can do.”

Emma reached her hand over to adjust the truck’s thermostat. She spun the knob with the tip of her finger, dialing the temperature back several degrees. “Seems like I have a lot to figure out these days. Too much.”

“You want to talk about it?” Michael said, directing the air to the window defroster.

“Well …” she began. “My office has called every day, upset that I’m still here. Yesterday, I was ordered to take part in a conference call with a potential client—all part of being a partner, I know, and it’s an important client and how do they not understand that I ‘get’ that anyway? It’s not like I haven’t lived out the credo that ‘the firm comes first’ for the past nine years. The thing is, they’re making it sound like I signed some sort of agreement to prioritize my life that way. I don’t remember signing that agreement. Things change, right? I’ve come to realize it takes only four days of making family a priority to lose nine years of equity at work.

“I needed to come to Juneberry. I understand that. And since I’ve been here I realize how things have changed so much in so many ways—Dad’s getting older, two of Samantha’s kids are practically all grown up and they’ve got another on the way, Christina’s got her dream career. I’ve missed so much, you know? It’s not like I can just pretend all the years didn’t happen.”

“Every choice we make has a cost, Em. Yesterday’s choices and today’s.”

His voice was calm, and though the words could have stung, Emma sensed they were spoken out of kindness. She squeezed Michael’s hand, pushing away the lamentable thought that he was part of the price she’d paid.

“I feel like I’m caught between two different worlds. Does that sound funny? And I feel like I’m failing in both of them.”

“Emma,” Michael said. “It’s not that bad. Things will work out. They always do.”

“Then why am I suddenly so conflicted about all this? My life in Boston is everything I wanted. I love it there. And my career—assuming I still have one when I get back—is only getting better. I should be happy about that, right?” she said.

“I think you’ll have to figure that out on your own too. But not tonight; it’s getting late. You need some rest.”

“You’re right. I think maybe you’re right about a lot of things. Another mystery to solve, I suppose.”

Emma pulled open the door. An instant rush of cold air hit her. She grabbed the front of her jacket and pulled it tight around her, waving good-bye with frozen fingers. Then she turned and climbed up the steps to the side porch and vanished inside.

Upstairs in her room, Emma saw her cell phone on the nightstand and picked it up, checking for voice messages before going to bed. There was one—a number she didn’t recognize, 508 area code. Cape Cod. She pushed the message retrieve button and sat on the bed to listen.

“Hello, Emma? It’s Colin. I’m looking out at the Atlantic Ocean from a client’s beach house, and it’s absolutely magnificent. I had to call you to say, wish you were here. It’s relaxing, and I think you’d love it. It’s warm here today and from the terrace I can feel the breeze coming in off the ocean and smell the salt water. I’m just down here for the day on business, but I thought I’d try to reach you … anyway, if you happen to get this message tonight and it’s not too late, call me back at this number. My cell phone’s out of juice and I won’t get the chance to recharge until I’m back in Boston tomorrow. And, Emma …” Colin’s voice reached for the right words. “Come back soon. Ciao.”

She rested the cell phone under her chin and closed her eyes. Life was so like a spinning puzzle cube, only it didn’t matter who spun the corners. It always wound up looking scrambled, a confusing jumble of pieces that never seemed close to falling into place.