One evening, over tea at his kitchen table, Zachary talked about his late wife — Hannah, a gifted commercial architect, gone three years.

“After I lost her,” he said, “I was sure I’d never want to build a life with anyone again.”

“And now?” I asked, softly.

He glanced over at Paisley, asleep on the sofa with a bag of cherries in her lap.

“Now I’m not so sure anymore.” And he looked back at me, straight at me, and I kept quiet, because my heart was suddenly going too fast to trust my voice.

I was not afraid of Zachary.