“I’ll walk home,” I say as Adam pulls up to the gentle hillside where Dad lies.

“You sure, sweetheart? It’s raining. Well, you like the rain.” He gives me a sad smile.

“I do love you,” I tell him. I can’t help it. I do, and as Laney said, being honest is going to help. I was honest about the anger; I can be honest about this, as well.

“I love you, too.” His eyes get teary again, and it’s reassuring. And sad. “Take your time,” he adds, clearing his throat. “I’ll make sure the girls are tucked in.”

“Be nice to Jenny.” I open the car door.

“I will. Here. Take my jacket.” He reaches back and hands me his windbreaker. “In case you get cold.”

I take the coat up to Dad’s grave and watch Adam pull away, then spread out his jacket and sit on the wet grass, the coppery smell of rain against granite oddly reassuring. Some of the graves here date back to pre–Revolutionary War days; Mrs. Brewster’s family, the Hales—as in Nathan—have a mausoleum, in fact. There are different sections connected by twisting roads, huge old trees, statues of angels. The entire cemetery is enclosed by an iron fence. When the girls are older, I’ll bring them here to learn to ride their bikes.

If we’re still living in our house, that is.

I brush off a few maple seed pods that have fallen on Daddy’s headstone.

I’m fairly sure my father would have been furious by all this; he would’ve punched Adam right in the face when he heard. Dad and Mom were that magical couple who never lost interest in each other, who still exchanged those private, smiling looks when they thought Jenny and I weren’t watching, the ultimate united front. All I ever wanted in a relationship was to emulate my parents. To be as good a mother as my mom was before the shooting, to find a man who’d never tire of me.

Mom and Dad were married for seventeen years, together for twenty. Twenty years together seems like an eternity to me right now.

It sure would be nice to have my father right now. To get a hug from your dad makes you feel safer than just about anything in the world, and in his arms, you don’t have to be brave or strong or selfless. You’re daddy’s little girl again, and just knowing he’s there makes everything a little better, even if it doesn’t really change anything.

I hear a hissing sound and look up. A man is riding a bicycle down the cemetery lane, the wheels slicing through puddles. It’s Leo, Jenny’s super, who was so nice to me that night.

“Hey,” he says, slowing to a stop.

“Hi, Leo. Kind of a wet night for a bike ride, isn’t it?”

“It’s not so bad.” He gets off his bike, puts down the kickstand and comes up to join me. Reads the headstone, which says Robert James Tate, Beloved Husband, Adored Father.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting next to me on Adam’s jacket. I haven’t been this close to a man other than Adam since... Heck. Since my obstetrician, and not counting him, since work, when Gus Fletcher, who had smiley eyes and flirted with every woman in the entire building, would lean down next to my computer and ask me to tweak a design.

“Thanks,” I say belatedly. “He was a great father.”

Leo nods. “Everything okay with you?” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Stupid question. Sorry.”

“I guess Jenny told you.”

“I kind of figured it out. How are your girls?”

“They’re fine. They’re wonderful.”

“I hope to meet them sometime.”

“You’re great with kids, I hear.”

His mouth pulls up. He has one of those faces that’s not quite handsome—he’s a little too angular—but is all the more appealing because of it. “I like kids.”

“Do you have any of your own?” I ask.

“No.”

“And you’re not married.”

“Nope. Don’t fix me up with your sister, though. She’s already half in love with me.” He grins full-on, and I find that I’m laughing.

“Why would that be a bad thing?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not the most stable or serious of men.”

“Sounds like a line.”

“It is. But a sincere line just the same.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is soaked. No helmet. Tsk.

“Can I ask you a question, Leo?”

“Sure.”

“Will you be really honest?”

“You bet.”

“How pretty am I?”

His eyebrows pop up. “Um...very.”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“At the moment, 8.75. When you’re dry, 9.25. Your hair isn’t great in the rain.”

I push the wet hair back. “True. That’s generous of you.”

“No. Just accurate.”

“Where would Jenny fall on that scale?”

“Three.”

“Oh, please. She’s a ten.” He shrugs, rather adorably. “You sure you don’t want to date her?”

“I don’t want to date anyone. But thank you.” He glances toward the gate. “Can I walk you home?”

“No, thanks. I could use a little alone time.” Alone time. It sounds so juvenile. Mommy needs some alone time, I often say to the girls when I’m in the bathroom, but they push right in and play happily at my feet as I do my thing. The bathroom has become very communal.