My suitcases were by the door. My toiletries were cleaned up from the bathroom. Max was coming to pick me up after rush hour. Daniel had offered, but I put him off. It carried too much weight, him coming to take me away from Nathan’s.

Brooke had sent me an email, telling me not to touch any of Nathan’s things. She would take care of that. It’s very hard for us to believe you loved Nathan if you found it so easy to fall in with another man. I think it would be better if we didn’t hear from you for a while, the email said.

But I did take one thing. A navy blue cashmere sweater, tucked at the bottom of my suitcase. He had so many, and I wanted something that had touched him.

I went into the cellar and brought up the Apple boxes. Into the den (or study) to pack up my equipment, the Apple, the cords and accessories, tucked back into their nesting foam.

Otherwise, there were a few books on photography—Ansel Adams and Margaret Bourke-White. The photo of Nathan and me. And Hector, of course.

Otherwise, there still wasn’t much of me in this room. There never had been.

Nothing of mine had ever made it from storage.

Did some part of me know I wouldn’t be married for long? Did I believe Nathan and I would last? Was the feeling of strangeness that permeated our marriage trying to tell me something?

There was my Nikon.

I guessed it was now or never.

Slowly, I reached for the camera. The last time I’d held this was the last day of my husband’s life, and yet it fit into my hands the same as always, comfortable, a solid, reliable workhorse of a camera.

If I was going to do this, I’d do it right. I dug through my bag of cords and found the one that would download the photos onto Nathan’s computer. Tapped the space bar of his computer. It took a minute to wake up, since it hadn’t been used since I looked at his emails from Madeleine.

And there they were, his neat folders.

I plugged the cord in and waited. Looked at Hector as the photos loaded, my heart thumping.

Then I looked at the screen. Import seven pictures? the computer asked me. I clicked Yes.

Oh, God. There he was, that last morning, his face so dear, so plain and rugged and...and...loved that my knees crumpled, and I slid into his chair.

Nathan. Oh, Nathan. How can you be gone forever?

I drank in the details; the shape of his mouth, the freckle under his eye, the blond eyelashes, the sweetness in his almost shy expression.

Thank God I’d gotten up early to see him that day. Thank God I had this picture.

The next one was from Eric’s party—my sister, lit up with happiness. Eric, that smug bastard.

Jonathan Kent, looking intently at Ainsley as she talked to someone else. Another little revelation caught by the camera.

The next one was of the back of Nathan’s head. He’d turned at the last second, and there was his head, hiding that vascular malformation. His soft ginger hair.

Ainsley with Eric’s mother, both of them teary-eyed.

It would be just a few minutes later that Nathan died.

One picture left.

I clicked, then sucked in a breath.

It was us. Nathan and me. That’s right, some girl from Ainsley’s work had asked to see my camera and clicked a shot.

It was a little off-center. But it didn’t matter, because there it was, the answer.

We were in love. I looked strangely sweet, my cheeks flushed, my arm around Nathan’s waist, my eyes shining. And Nathan...

I heard a noise just then. It was me. I was crying. Finally, I was crying. Gushing, really, and sobbing, the sound so strange and so wonderful, too.

Tears made the picture go out of focus, but I dashed them out of my eyes.

Nathan looked so happy. So...content. And God, there was nothing wrong with that. He had the look of marrow-deep satisfaction, and a little hint of pride, and love, yes, absolutely, love. The moment in time, stopped and caught forever.

We had been so happy.

I bent my head and cried. Cried and cried with happiness and loss and gratitude and grief. I had loved my husband, and he died far, far too young, and if he had lived, we’d still be together, pregnant or not, taking care of each other, the way people do when they love each other.

“I love you,” I whispered. “Nathan, I loved you so much.”

And there it was again. The wave of warmth, the smell of my husband, and such a sweet, strong pressure in my chest that I knew he was here.

Here to say goodbye.

Epilogue

Kate

On May 7, one year, one month and one day after I was widowed, I became a mother.

The time had passed slowly, and also with breathtaking speed. My body flew ahead with pregnancy, but it seemed like the longest fall on record.

I moved back to Brooklyn, staying with Daniel for two months until my apartment was once again mine. I slept in his spare bedroom and acted like a guest, keeping my room tidy, paying for half of the utilities, working as much as I could to save up for when I had the baby. Daniel didn’t push things, but he jumped at the chance to do anything for me, whether it was pick up some food or rub my feet.

We kept things platonic.

During those eight weeks, I’d often go to Cambry-on-Hudson to stay with my dad and sister. In December, Ainsley put a down payment on a sweet little bungalow with three bedrooms, and I stayed there most weekends. She and Jonathan were in no hurry to take things a step further, she said; if she was going to be his children’s stepmother, she wanted to do it right. Slow and steady seemed to be the plan.

On one weekend in COH, I saw Brooke leaving the cemetery. She didn’t see me.

Yes, I still visited Nathan’s grave. Those pictures had shown me that despite being unsure and unsettled, I had also been happy in a way I’d never been until then.

And I was happy now. Still in mourning, but moving forward. The two feelings didn’t cancel each other out.

Moving back into my apartment was odd; once, it had been so important to me. Now it was just a place. A lovely place, but I had learned that home had a lot more to do with the people than the floorboards and closets. Nathan’s house had never been home. He, on the other hand, had been.

My mother surprised me by sneaking a little closer. After she left Dad, the weight of bitterness had slipped off her shoulders. She called me every few days and had stopped reciting from her books, content just to talk. Dad remained his usual self, always one step removed.

Sean and Kiara and their kids stayed where they were, on the fringes of our family, always around just enough, never so much that familial responsibility actually interfered with their perfect lives. It was okay. Now my family was my little bean. Ainsley and Jonathan.

And Daniel, too.

After I moved back into my old place, Daniel started coming over at night. We’d talk and eat and watch TV. He told me about the downside of being a firefighter—the bureaucracy’s needless interventions, the bad calls, the lazy coworker, the hidden dangers, the uncomfortable hero worship. Seemed like the hot firefighter routine had been as much armor as a way to attract women.

Sometimes he fell asleep on the couch, tired from his shift, and I’d look at his ridiculously handsome face and feel a rush of tenderness. He was a simple guy, was Daniel the Hot Firefighter, but in all the good ways. He loved his job, protected his woman, as he called me, and talked to our baby through my stomach.

There was a lot to love there.

Eventually, the nights on the couch morphed into him sleeping in the guest room a few times a week, then every other day, then most days.

Then one night, when I was in bed, tossing and turning and occasionally chomping down a Tums, he came into my room in his boxer shorts. “Move over,” he said and got in next to me, holding me in his big arms, one hand on my stomach, where our baby slid and flipped inside.