o tell me,” Miles said to Sarah as they left Sarah’s building later that night, “what do you miss most about the big city?”

“Galleries, the museums, concerts. Restaurants that are open past nine o’clock.”

Miles laughed. “But what do you miss the most?”

Sarah looped her arm through his. “I miss the bistros. You know—little cafés where I could sit and sip my tea while I read the Sunday paper. It was enjoyable to be able to do that in the middle of downtown. It was like a little oasis somehow, because everyone who passed you on the street always looked like they were rushing somewhere.”

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“You know, you can do that here, too,” Miles finally offered.

“Really?”

“Sure. There’s a place like that right over there on Broad Street.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a bistro.”

“What is it, then?”

He shrugged. “It’s a gas station, but it’s got a nice bench out front, and I’m sure if you brought in your own teabag, they’d be able to scrounge up a cup of hot water for you.”

She giggled. “Sounds enticing.”

As they crossed the street, they fell in behind a group of people who were obviously part of the festivities. Dressed in period clothing, they looked as if they’d just stepped out of the eighteenth century—thick, heavy skirts on the women, black pants and high boots for the men, high collars, wide-brimmed hats.  At the corner they broke into two separate groups, heading in opposite directions. Miles and Sarah followed the smaller group.  “You’ve always lived here, right?” Sarah asked.

“Except for the years I went to college.”

“Didn’t you ever want to move away? To experience something new?”

“Like bistros?”

She nudged him playfully with her elbow. “No, not just that. Cities have a vibrancy, a sense of excitement that you can’t find in a small town.” “I don’t doubt it. But to be honest, I’ve never been interested in things like that. I don’t need those things to make me happy. A nice quiet place to unwind at the end of the day, beautiful views, a few good friends. What else is there?” “What was it like growing up here?”

“Did you ever seeThe Andy Griffith Show ? Mayberry?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, it was kind of like that. New Bern wasn’t quite so small, of course, but it had that small-town feel, you know? Where things seemed safe? I remember that when I was little—seven or eight—and I used to head out with my friends to go fishing or exploring or just out to play and I’d be gone until supper. And my parents wouldn’t worry at all, because they didn’t have to. Other times, we’d camp out down by the river all night long and the thought that something bad might happen to us never entered our minds. It’s a wonderful way to grow up, and I’d like Jonah to have the chance to grow up that way, too.” “You’d let Jonah camp out by the river all night?”

“Not a chance,” he said. “Things have changed, even in little New Bern.” As they reached the corner, a car rolled to a stop beside them. Just down the street, clusters of people strolled up and down the walks of various homes.  “We’re friends, right?” Miles asked.

“I’d like to think so.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“I guess it depends on the question.”

“What was your ex-husband like?”

She glanced toward him in surprise. “My ex-husband?” “I’ve been wondering about that. You’ve never mentioned him in all the time we’ve talked.”

Sarah said nothing, suddenly intent on the sidewalk in front of her.  “If you’d rather not answer, you don’t have to,” Miles offered. “I’m sure it wouldn’t change my impression of him, anyway.”

“And what impression is that?”

“I don’t like him.”

Sarah laughed. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you don’t like him.”

“You’re pretty perceptive.”

“That’s why I’m in law enforcement.” He tapped his temple and winked at her. “I can spot clues that ordinary people overlook.”

She smiled, giving his arm an extra squeeze. “All right . . . my ex-husband. His name was Michael King and we met right after he finished his MBA. We were married for three years. He was rich, well educated, and good-looking . . .” She ticked those off, one right after the other, and when she paused, Miles nodded.  “Mmm . . . I can see why you don’t like the guy.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“There’s more?”

“Do you want to hear this?”

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

She hesitated before finally going on.

“Well, for the first couple of years, we were happy. At least, I was. We had a beautiful apartment, we spent all of our free time together, and I thought I knew who he was. But I didn’t. Not really, anyway. In the end, we were arguing all the time, we hardly talked at all, and . . . and it just didn’t work out,” she finished quickly.

“Just like that?” he asked.

“Just like that,” she said.

“Do you ever see him anymore?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he said.

“Don’t be. I’m better off without him.”

“So when did you know it was over?”

“When he handed me the divorce papers.”

“You had no idea they were coming?”

“No.”

“I knew I didn’t like him.” He also knew she hadn’t told him everything.  She smiled appreciatively. “Maybe that’s why we get along so well. We see eye to eye on things.”

“Except, of course, about the wonders of small-town living, right?”

“I never said I didn’t like it here.”

“But could you see yourself staying in a place like this?”

“You mean forever?”

“C’mon, you have to admit it’s nice.”

“It is. I’ve already said that.”

“But it’s not for you? In the long run, I mean?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

She smiled at him. “On what my reason for staying would be.” Staring at her, he couldn’t help but imagine that her words were either an invitation or a promise.

• • •

The moon began its slow evening arc upward, glowing yellow and then orange as it crested the weathered roofline of the Travis-Banner home, their first stop on the ghost walk. The house was an ancient two-story Victorian with wide, wraparound porches desperately in need of painting. On the porch, a small crowd had gathered as two women, dressed as witches, stood around a large pot, serving apple cider and pretending to conjure up the first owner of the house, a man who’d supposedly been beheaded in a logging accident. The front door of the home was open; from inside came faint sounds of a carnival funhouse: terrified shrieks and creaking doors, strange thumps and cackling laughter. Suddenly the two witches dropped their heads, the lights went out on the porch, and a headless ghost made a dramatic appearance in the foyer behind them—a blackened shape dressed in a cape with arms extended and bones where hands should have been. One woman yelped as she dropped her cup of cider on the porch. Sarah moved instinctively toward Miles, half turning toward him as she reached for his arm with a grip that surprised him. Up close, her hair looked soft, and though it was a different color from Missy’s, he was reminded of what it had felt like to comb through Missy’s hair with his fingers as they lay together in the evenings.  A minute later, at the muttered incantations of the witches, the ghost vanished and the lights came back on. Amid nervous laughter, the audience dispersed.  Over the next couple of hours, Miles and Sarah visited a number of houses. They were invited inside for a quick tour of some; in others they stood in the foyer or were entertained in the garden with stories about the history of the home.  Miles had taken this tour before, and as they strolled from home to home, he suggested places of particular interest and regaled her with stories about homes that weren’t part of the ghost walk this year.

They drifted along the cracked cement sidewalks, murmuring to each other, savoring the evening. In time, the crowds began to thin and some of the homes began to close up for the night. When Sarah asked if he was ready for dinner, Miles shook his head.

“There’s one more stop,” he said.

He led her down the street, holding her hand, gently brushing his thumb against it. From one of the towering hickory trees, an owl called out as they passed, then grew silent again. Up ahead, a group of people dressed as ghosts were piling into a station wagon. At the corner, Miles pointed toward a large, two-story home, this one devoid of the crowds she’d come to expect. The windows were absolutely black, as if shuttered from the interior. Instead, the only light was provided by a dozen candles lining the porch railings and a small wooden bench near the front door. Beside the bench sat an elderly woman in a rocking chair, a blanket draped over her legs. In the eerie light, she looked almost like a mannequin; her hair was white and thinning, her body frail and brittle. Her skin looked translucent in the flickering glow of candles, and her face was lined deeply, like the cracked glaze of an old china cup. Miles and Sarah seated themselves on the porch swing as the elderly woman studied them.  “Hello, Miss Harkins,” Miles said slowly, “did you have a good crowd tonight?” “Same as usual,” Miss Harkins answered. Her voice was raspy, like that of a lifetime smoker. “You know how it goes.” She squinted at Miles, as if trying to make him out from a distance. “So you’ve come to hear the story of Harris and Kathryn Presser, have you?”

“I thought she should hear it,” Miles answered solemnly.  For a moment, Miss Harkins’s eyes seemed to twinkle, and she reached for the cup of tea that sat beside her.

Miles slipped his arm over Sarah’s shoulder, pulling her close. Sarah felt herself relax beneath his touch.

“You’ll like this,” Miles whispered. His breath on her ear ran a current under her skin.

I already do, she thought to herself.

Miss Harkins set the cup of tea aside. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

There are ghosts and there is love,

And both are present here,

To those who listen, this tale will tell

The truth of love and if it’s near.

Sarah stole a quick peek at Miles.

“Harris Presser,” Miss Harkins announced, “had been born in 1843 to owners of a small candle-making shop in downtown New Bern. Like many young men of the period, Harris wanted to serve for the Confederacy when the War of Southern Independence began. Because he was an only son, however, both his mother and father begged him not to go. In listening to their wishes, Harris Presser irrevocably sealed his fate.”

Here, Miss Harkins paused and looked at them.

“He fell in love,” she said softly.

For a second, Sarah wondered if Miss Harkins was also referring to them. Miss Harkins’s eyebrows rose slightly, as if she were reading Sarah’s thoughts, and Sarah glanced away.

“Kathryn Purdy was only seventeen, and like Harris, she was also an only child.  Her parents owned both the hotel and the logging mill, and were the wealthiest family in town. They didn’t associate with the Pressers, but both families were among those that stayed in town after New Bern fell to Union forces in 1862.  Despite the war and the occupation, Harris and Kathryn began meeting by the Neuse River on early summer evenings, just to talk, and eventually Kathryn’s parents found out. They were angry and forbade their daughter to see Harris anymore, since the Pressers were regarded as commoners, but it had the effect of binding the young couple even closer together. But it wasn’t easy for them to see each other. In time, they devised a plan, in order to escape the watchful eyes of Kathryn’s parents. Harris would stand in his parents’ candle shop down the street, watching for the signal. If her parents were asleep, Kathryn would put a lighted candle on the sill, and Harris would sneak over. He would climb the massive oak tree right outside her window and help her down. In this way, they met as often as they could, and as the months passed, they fell deeper and deeper in love.”

Miss Harkins took another sip of her tea, then narrowed her eyes slightly. Her voice took on a more ominous tone.

“By now, the Union forces were tightening their grip on the South—the news from Virginia was grim, and there were rumors that General Lee was going to swing down with his army from northern Virginia and try to retake eastern North Carolina for the Confederacy. A curfew was instituted and anyone caught outside in the evening, especially young men, was likely to be shot. Unable now to meet with Kathryn, Harris contrived to work late in his parents’ shop, lighting his own candle in the store window so that Kathryn would know he was longing to see her. This went on for weeks, until one day, he smuggled a note to Kathryn through a sympathetic preacher, asking her to elope with him. If her answer was yes, she was supposed to put two candles in the window—one that said she agreed, and the second as a signal for when it was safe for him to come and get her.  That night, the two candles were lit, and despite all the odds, they were married that night under a full moon, by the same sympathetic preacher who’d delivered the note. All of them had risked their lives for love.  “But, unfortunately, Kathryn’s parents discovered another secret letter that Harris had written. Enraged, they confronted Kathryn with what they knew.  Kathryn defiantly told them that there was nothing they could do. Sadly, she was only partly right.

“A few days later, Kathryn’s father, who had a working relationship with the Union colonel in charge of the occupation, contacted the colonel and informed him that there was a Confederate spy in their midst, someone in contact with General Lee, who was passing secret information about the town’s defenses. In light of the rumors about Lee’s probable invasion, Harris Presser was arrested in his parents’ shop. Before he was taken out to be hanged, he asked for one favor—a candle to be lighted in the window of his shop—and it was granted. That night, from the limbs of the giant oak tree in front of Kathryn’s window, Harris Presser was hanged. Kathryn was heartbroken, and she knew her father had been responsible.

“She went to see Harris’s parents and asked for the candle that had been burning in the window the night that Harris died. Overcome by grief, they hardly knew what to make of the strange request, but she explained that she wanted something to remember ‘the kindly young man who’d always been so courteous to her.’ They gave it to her, and that night she lit both candles and set them on the windowsill. Her parents found her the next day. She’d committed suicide by hanging herself from the same giant oak tree.”

On the porch, Miles pulled Sarah a little closer to him. “How do you like it so far?” he whispered.

“Shh,” she answered. “We’re getting to the ghost part, I think.” “Those candles burned all night and the following day, until they were nothing more than little knobs of wax. But still they burned. On into the next night, then the next. They burned for three days, as long as Kathryn and Harris had been married, and then they went out. The following year, on Harris and Kathryn’s anniversary, Kathryn’s unused room mysteriously caught fire, but the house was saved. More bad luck followed for the Purdy family—the hotel was lost in a flood and the logging mill was taken to pay debts. In financial ruin, Kathryn’s parents moved away, abandoning the house. But . . .” Miss Harkins leaned forward, a look of mischief in her eyes. Her voice sank to a whisper.

“Every now and then, people would swear that they could see two candles burning in the window above. Others would swear there was only one . . . but that another was burning in another abandoned building down the street. And even now, over a hundred years later, people still claim to see candles burning in the windows of some of the abandoned houses down here. And it’s strange—the only people who see them are young couples in love. Whether or not you two will see them depends on your feelings for each other.”

Miss Harkins closed her eyes, as if telling the story had drained her. For a minute she didn’t move, and Sarah and Miles sat frozen in place, afraid to break the spell. Then she finally opened her eyes again and reached for her tea.  After saying good-bye, Miles and Sarah descended the porch steps and returned to the gravel path. Miles took Sarah’s hand again as they approached the street. As if still under the spell of Miss Harkins’s story, neither Miles nor Sarah said anything for a long while.

“I’m glad we went there,” Sarah finally offered.

“So you liked it?”

“All women love romantic stories.”

They rounded the corner and neared Front Street; ahead, they could make out the river between the homes, gliding silently, shining black.  “Are you ready for something to eat?”

“In a minute,” he said, slowing down, then finally stopping.  She looked at him. Over his shoulder, she could see moths fluttering around the glowing street lamp. Miles was staring into the distance, toward the river, and Sarah followed his eyes but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.  “What is it?” she asked.

Miles shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He wanted to start walking again but found he couldn’t. Instead he took a step toward Sarah, pulling her gently toward him. Sarah followed his lead, her stomach tightening. As Miles leaned toward her, she closed her eyes, and when their faces drew near, it was as if nothing else mattered in the world.

The kiss went on and on, and when they finally pulled apart, Miles embraced her.  He buried his face in her neck, then kissed the hollow of her shoulder. The moisture of his tongue made her shiver, and she leaned into him, savoring the safe harbor of his arms as the rest of the world went on around them.

• • •

A few minutes later they walked back to her apartment, talking softly, his thumb moving gently over the back of her hand.

Once inside, Miles draped his jacket over the back of the chair as Sarah made her way to the kitchen. He wondered if she knew he was watching her.  “So what’s for dinner?” he asked.

Sarah opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a large pan covered in tinfoil. “Lasagna, French bread, and a salad. Is that okay?” “Sounds great. Can I give you a hand with anything?”

“It’s pretty much done,” Sarah answered as she put the pan in the oven. “All I have to do is heat this for a half hour or so. But if you want, you can start the fire. And open the wine—it’s on the counter.”

“No problem,” he said.

“I’ll join you in the living room in a few minutes,” Sarah called out as she headed for the bedroom.

In the bedroom, Sarah picked up a hairbrush and began to pull it through her hair.

Much as she wanted to deny it, their kiss had left her feeling a bit shaky. She sensed that tonight was a turning point in their relationship, and she was scared. She knew that she had to tell Miles the real reason for the collapse of her marriage, but it wasn’t easy to talk about. Especially to someone she cared about.

As much as she knew he cared about her as well, there was no telling what his response would be or if it would change his feelings about being with her.  Hadn’t he said that he wished that Jonah had a brother or sister? Would he be willing to give that up?

Sarah found her reflection in the mirror.

She didn’t want to do this now, but she knew that if their relationship was to go any further, she would have to tell him. More than anything, she didn’t want history to repeat itself, for Miles to do what Michael had done. She couldn’t go through that again.

Sarah finished brushing her hair, checked her makeup through force of habit, and, resolving to face Miles with the truth, began to leave the bedroom. But instead of heading out the door, she suddenly sat on the edge of the bed. Was she really ready for this?

Right now, the answer to that question frightened her more than she could say.

• • •

By the time she finally emerged from the bedroom, the fire was blazing. Miles was returning from the kitchen, carrying the bottle of wine.  “Just thought we might need this,” he said, lifting the bottle a little higher.

“I think that’s probably a good idea,” Sarah agreed.

The way she said it seemed off somehow to Miles, and he hesitated. Sarah made herself comfortable on the couch, and after a moment, he put the wine on the end table and sat beside her. For a long time, Sarah simply drank her wine in silence. Finally Miles reached for her hand.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Sarah gently swirled the wine in her glass. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” she said quietly.

Miles could hear the sound of cars as they rolled past her apartment. The logs in the fireplace popped, causing a shower of sparks to ascend the chimney.  Shadows danced on the walls.

Sarah pulled one leg up and crossed it beneath her. Miles, knowing she was collecting her thoughts, watched her in silence before giving her hand an encouraging squeeze.

It seemed to bring her back to the present. Miles saw the flames flickering in her eyes.

“You’re a good man, Miles,” she said, “and these last few weeks have really meant a lot to me.” She stopped again.

Miles didn’t like the sound of this and wondered what had happened in the few minutes that she was in the bedroom. As he watched her, he felt his stomach begin to clench.

“Do you remember when you asked me about my ex-husband?”

Miles nodded.

“I didn’t finish the story. There was more to it than just the things I told you, and . . . and I don’t know exactly how to say it.”

“Why?”

She glanced toward the fire. “Because I’m afraid of what you might think.” As a sheriff, a number of ideas occurred to him—that her ex had been abusive, that he’d hurt her somehow, that she’d left the relationship wounded in some way. Divorce was always painful, but the way she looked now suggested there was much more to it than simply that.

He smiled, hoping for some response, but there was nothing.  “Listen, Sarah,” he finally said, “you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I won’t ask about it again. That’s your business, and I’ve learned enough about you in the past few weeks to know what kind of person you are, and that’s all that matters to me. I don’t need to know everything about you—and to be honest, I doubt that whatever you’d say would change the way I feel about you.”

Sarah smiled, but her eyes refused to meet his. “Do you remember when I asked you about Missy?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the things you said about her?”

Miles nodded.

“I remember them, too.” For the first time, she met his eyes. “I want you to know that I can never be like her.”

Miles frowned. “I know that,” he said. “And I don’t expect you to—” She held up her hands. “No, Miles—you misunderstand me. It’s not that I think you’re attracted to me because I’m like Missy. I know that’s not it. But I wasn’t very clear.”

“Then what is it?” he asked.

“Do you remember when you told me what a good mother she was? And how much you

both wanted Jonah to have siblings?” She paused but didn’t expect an answer. “I can’t ever be like that. That’s the reason Michael left me.” Her eyes finally locked on his. “I couldn’t get pregnant. But it wasn’t him, Miles. He was fine. It was me.”

And then, as if driving the point home, in case he didn’t understand, she put it as plainly as she could.

“I can’t have children. Ever.”

Miles said nothing, and after a long moment, Sarah went on.  “You can’t imagine what it was like to find out. It just seemed so ironic, you know? I’d spent my early twenties trying not to get pregnant. I used to panic if I forgot to take my birth control pills. I never even considered that I might not be able to have children.”

“How did you find out?”

“The usual way. It just didn’t happen. We finally went in for tests. That was when I found out.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Miles could think to say.

“So am I.” She exhaled sharply, as if she still had trouble believing it. “And so was Michael. But he couldn’t handle it. I told him that we could still adopt, and I’d be perfectly happy with that, but he refused to even consider it because of his family.”

“You’re kidding. . . .”

Sarah shook her head. “I wish I were. Looking back, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. When we first started going out, he used to say that I was the most perfect woman he’d ever met. As soon as something happened that proved otherwise, he was willing to throw away everything we had.” She stared into her wineglass, talking almost to herself. “He asked for a divorce, and I moved out a week later.”

Miles took her hand without a word and nodded for her to continue.  “After that . . . well, it hasn’t been easy. It’s not the sort of thing you bring up at cocktail parties, you know. My family knows, and I talked to Sylvia about it. She was my counselor and she helped me a lot, but those four are the only ones who knew. And now you. . . .”

She trailed off. In the firelight, Miles thought she had never looked more beautiful. Her hair caught fragments of light and cast them off like a halo.  “So why me?” Miles finally asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really.”

“I just thought you should know. I mean, before . . . Like I said, I don’t want it to happen again. . . .” She looked away.

Miles gently turned her face back to him. “Do you really think I’d do that?” Sarah looked at him sadly. “Oh, Miles . . . it’s easy to say that it doesn’t matter right now. What I’m worried about is how you’ll feel later, after you’ve had the chance to think about this. Let’s say we keep seeing each other and things go as well as they have up to this point. Can you honestly say that it won’t matter to you? That being able to have children wouldn’t be important to you? That Jonah would never have a little brother or sister running around the house?”

She cleared her throat. “I know I’m jumping the gun here, and don’t think that by telling you all this, I expect us to get married. But I had to tell you the truth, so you’d know what you’re getting into—before this goes any further. I can’t let myself go any further unless I’m certain that you’re not going to turn around and do the same thing that Michael did. If it doesn’t work out for another reason, fine. I can live with that. But I can’t face again what I’ve already gone through once.”

Miles looked toward his glass, saw the light reflected there. He traced the rim with his finger.

“There’s something you should know about me, too,” he said. “I had a really hard time after Missy died. It wasn’t just that she died—it was also that I never found out who’d been driving the car that night. That’s what my job is, both as her husband and as sheriff. And for a long time, finding out who’d been driving was all I could think about. I investigated on my own, I talked to people, but whoever did it got away, and that ate at me like you can’t imagine. I felt like I was going crazy for a long time, but lately . . .”

His voice was tender as he met her eyes.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t need time, Sarah . . . I don’t know . . . I just know that I’m missing something in my life, and that until I met you, I didn’t know what it was. If you want me to take some time to think about it, I will. But that would be for you—not for me. You haven’t said anything that could change the way I feel about you. I’m not like Michael. I could never be like him.”

In the kitchen, the timer went off with a ding, and both of them turned at the sound. The lasagna was ready, but neither of them moved. Sarah suddenly felt light-headed, though she didn’t know if it was the wine or Miles’s words.  Carefully, she set her wineglass on the table and, taking a slow breath, stood from the couch.

“Let me get the lasagna before it burns.”

In the kitchen, she paused to lean against the counter, the words coming once more.

I don’t need time, Sarah.

You haven’t said anything that could change the way I feel about you.  It didn’t matter to him. And best of all, she believed him. The things he’d said, the way he’d looked at her . . . Since the divorce, she’d almost come to believe that no one she met would understand.

She left the pan of lasagna on the stovetop. When she returned to the living room, Miles was sitting on the couch, staring into the fire. She sat down and rested her head on his shoulder, letting him pull her close. As they both watched the fire, she could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His hand was moving rhythmically against her, her skin tingling wherever he touched.  “Thank you for trusting me,” he said.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Not this time. Not with you.”

She lifted her head then, and without another word she kissed him, brushing her lips softly against his, once, then twice, before meeting them for good. His arms moved up her back as her mouth opened, and then she felt his tongue against hers, the wetness intoxicating. She brought one of her hands to his face, felt the rough stubble beneath her fingertips, then traced the stubble with her lips.  Miles responded by moving his mouth to her neck, gently nipping and kissing, his breath hot against her skin.

They made love for a long time; the fire eventually burned itself out, painting the room with darker shadows. Throughout the night, Miles whispered to her in the darkness, his hand always in movement against her, as if trying to convince himself that she was real. Twice, he got up to add more logs to the fire. She retrieved a quilt from the bedroom to cover them up, and sometime in the early morning hours, both of them realized they were ravenous. They shared the plate of lasagna in front of the fire, and for some reason, the act of eating together—naked and beneath the quilt—seemed almost as sensual as anything else that had happened that night.

Just before dawn, Sarah finally feel asleep and Miles carried her to the bedroom, closed the drapes, and crawled in beside her. The morning was overcast and rainy, dark, and they slept until almost noon, the first time that had happened for either of them in as long as they could remember. Sarah woke first; she felt Miles curled around her, one arm on top, and she stirred. It was enough to wake him. He lifted his head from the pillow, and she rolled over to face him. Miles reached up and traced her cheek with his finger, trying to suppress the lump that had formed in his throat.

“I love you,” he said, unable to stop the words.

She took his hand in both of hers, bringing it to her breast.

“Oh, Miles,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”