Dex laughed.
The sound moved through me like sunlight.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small envelope.
“What is that?”
“Something I found in the garage.”
Inside was a photograph of Harold standing beside the unfinished parlor wall. He wore paint-stained trousers and an expression of triumph. In the background, the first shelves had already been installed.
On the back, he had written, We will fill this room with people who need somewhere to go.
I turned the photograph over.
“When was this taken?”
“The week before he died.”
“He was going to show me.”
“I think he was.”
We sat beneath the apple tree until the wind moved through the branches.
“I miss him,” Dex said.
“So do I.”
“I was angry at you for keeping him here.”
“I was angry at you for leaving me here.”
He looked down.
“I did leave you.”
“Not forever.”
“No,” he said. “But long enough.”
I put the photograph between us.
“Then stay now.”
He nodded.
“I will.”
On the first warm evening of June, we held a dinner in the renovated room.
There were thirty people at the tables. Martin carved bread at the counter. Lenora supervised a group of teenagers making fruit tarts. Petra stirred a large pot of stew while Mara stood on a stool beside her.
Dex moved from table to table carrying glasses.
At the far end of the room, someone had placed my old holiday decorations. The purple snowmen Mara had drawn that winter were framed above the shelves.
I had kept them.
