“Sammy talked, didn’t he.”
“He sure did.” I was laughing now, and my chest felt lighter than it had in years — lighter, maybe, than it had since we lost the lake.
“Now put the coffee on, sweetheart.
You’ve got a whole lot of Maine to tell me about.”
He started to explain, the words falling over each other the way Yara’s had — it was supposed to be for the anniversary, I wanted to hand you the deed at dinner, there were going to be candles — and I let him go for a while, listening to my careful, patient, terrible-at-secrets husband narrate the surprise he’d guarded for half a year and lost to a five-year-old and a box of stickers in the final stretch.
And when he ran out of breath I told him it was all right.