“Sam called from Indianapolis last night,” Sophie said.

“He says he and Peter are driving down for Thanksgiving.”

“Tell them to bring their work boots,” I said.

“We’ll clean up the boat ramp together.”

I looked across the still water at the far shore.

For six years every thought of this lake had come with a cold weight of unsettled grief and bitter second-guessing.

I’d wondered whether I’d missed the warning signs, or whether he’d chosen to walk away from the home we built.

Now that shadow was gone.