I finished the wine, set the glass down, and walked back out onto the dance floor.

Clare met me near the brass edge of the parquet floor.

David walked two paces behind her, carrying a flat wooden frame wrapped in thin white tissue paper.

“I took this out of Mom’s cedar chest three months ago,” Clare said softly.

She peeled back the tissue paper and handed the oak frame to me.

Inside was a color photograph from July of nineteen ninety-eight.

Clare and I sat on the blue enamel hood of the station wagon in our driveway, our legs dangling over the front grille, each holding a wooden spoon and a small paper cup of vanilla ice cream.