The rain stopped sometime before dawn. By six o'clock, the town was quiet again. Birds had begun their morning arguments in the trees. Water dripped from the gutters. Somewhere down the street, a truck started.
And from the Bellamy house came the unmistakable sound of Vivian yelling, "WHO TOOK MY HAIRSPRAY?"
Art opened one eye. Hank didn't move. Art sighed. "Morning." Hank's tail thumped once against the floor.
Art got out of bed. He made coffee. He stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking around. He enjoyed his kitchen now with his daughter's picture on the refrigerator, and the ridiculous rooster on the windowsill.
And on the counter—Margaret's letter. Art picked it up. He had read it every night since Ruth had given it to him, because he liked hearing Margaret's voice in his head. He folded it carefully and slipped it into the wooden box he'd found in the attic. Then he noticed something still in the envelope. The old photograph. The one Ruth had given him. Art picked it up. Three young people standing beside a lake. He smiled.
Then he turned the photograph over and noticed writing on the back. His heart stopped. Three words.
Remember this day.
Art stared at them. Then he laughed softly. "I do."
At eight o'clock, Art walked across the street. He knocked. Nobody answered. He knocked again. Nothing. Then the door opened. Lou stood there wearing two different slippers. Art looked down. "Those don't match." Lou looked down. "Neither did my socks."
"Why?"
"They were lonely."
Art shook his head. "Of course they were."
He walked inside. The house smelled like coffee and cinnamon. Martie was in the kitchen.Vivian was sitting at the table doing her nails. Ruth was reading the newspaper. Emily was laughing.
Art held up the photograph. "Look what I brought." Everyone gathered around.
"What happened that day?" Art asked Ruth.
Ruth smiled. "You don't remember?"
"No."
She laughed. "You were trying to impress Margaret."
Art frowned. "With what?"
"Your fishing."
"I was good at fishing."
"You were terrible."
Art looked offended. "I was not."
Ruth laughed. "You caught a boot."
Lou burst out laughing. "A boot?"
"It was floating near the dock."
Art shook his head. "I thought it was a fish."
Vivian stared at him. "You thought a boot was a fish?"
"I was twenty-nine."
Martie nodded. "That explains everything."
Emily was laughing so hard she had to sit down. Art looked at the photograph again. "I remember Margaret laughing."
Ruth smiled. "She laughed all afternoon."
Art's eyes softened. "She was happy."
"Very." Ruth touched the photograph. "She told me that night she knew she was going to marry you."
Art looked at her. "That early?"
Ruth nodded. "She said you were stubborn, funny, and kind."
Art smiled. "She forgot handsome."
Ruth laughed. "No."
She looked at Vivian. "She mentioned that too."
Vivian pointed at Art. "See?"
Art grinned. "I always knew I had it."
Ruth looked at Emily. Art put his hand over hers. Ruth continued. "She worried about you, Emily."
"About what?"
"That you would grow up and think your father didn't love you."
Art closed his eyes. Emily looked at him. "She knew?"
Ruth nodded. "She knew you two were both stubborn."
Art smiled sadly. "That sounds about right."
Ruth looked at Emily. "Your mother said something else."
"What?"
"She said if you ever became angry with your father, you should remember that sometimes people don't know how to say they're afraid."
Emily looked at Art. He squeezed her hand. "I wish I'd known that." Emily smiled. "So do I."
Art looked at her. "I was afraid."
"I know."
"I didn't know how to lose your mother and still be your father."
Emily's eyes filled. "I didn't know how to lose Mom and still be your daughter."
They sat quietly. Then Emily leaned over and hugged him. Art held her. "I've got you now." She whispered, "Yeah." She held him tighter. "You do."
Later that afternoon, Art walked to the lake. Alone. At least at first. He sat on the dock with his fishing rod beside him.
The water was calm and the air smelled like wet earth.
He thought about Margaret. Their beginning with the laughter and dancing. Their first apartment, Emily's first steps, and Margaret burning dinner and pretending she meant to. He thought about Christmas mornings, arguments, and apologies. Forty years, A whole life.
He smiled. "I remember."
He looked at the water. "And I'm still here."
For years, saying that would have sounded like an apology. Now it sounded like gratitude. He sat there for a while. Then he heard footsteps behind him. He turned. Ruth stood there. "You followed me."
"I know where you go when you're thinking."
Art smiled. "Margaret told you?"
"She told me everything."
Ruth sat beside him. They watched the water. After a while, Art said, "I used to come here when I was angry."
"And now?"
"Now I come here when I'm grateful."
Ruth smiled. "That's quite a change."
"Yeah."
He looked toward the lake. "I thought moving here would let me forget."
"And did it?"
"No."
He smiled. "It taught me I didn't need to."
Ruth nodded. They sat in silence. Then Art said, "I think Margaret would like this."
Ruth smiled. "She would."
"What do you think she'd say?"
Ruth thought about it. Then smiled. "She'd probably say you finally got some sense."
Art laughed. "Yeah." He looked toward the sky. "I miss you, Margaret." The words didn't hurt the way they once had. They simply existed like the memory of her laugh or the warmth of an old friend. Like a song you hadn't heard in years but somehow still knew.
Art stood. You ready?"
Ruth looked at him. "Ready for what?"
"Home."
She smiled. "Yes."
When they returned, the Bellamy sisters were waiting on Art's porch. There were balloons. Again. Art stopped. "No."
Vivian smiled. "Yes."
"What is it this time?"
Lou held up a sign. Art read it.
WELCOME HOME, ART!
He looked at them. "I'm going to need an explanation."
Martie smiled. "We decided you needed a party."
"I had a party."
"That was Ruth's party."
"What kind of party is this?"
Vivian grinned. "Yours."
Art stared. "Why?"
Lou shrugged. "Because you went to the lake."
Art frowned. "So?"
"And you came back."
He looked at them. Then understood. They weren't celebrating the lake. They weren't celebrating Margaret. They weren't even celebrating him.They were celebrating the fact that he had gone somewhere alone—and returned to people who were waiting.
Art looked away. For a moment, he couldn't speak. Then he smiled. "All right."
Vivian's mouth dropped open. "Did he just agree?"
Martie looked at Lou. "Write it down."
Lou pulled a notebook from her pocket. "I already did."
Art laughed. They gathered around him. And when the evening settled over the street, the porch filled again.
Food, coffee, stories, laughter, six chairs, one dog, one rooster, and one ridiculous gnome.
Art sat back. He looked at the women. He looked across the street at the Bellamy house. Then toward the lake beyond the trees. And he realized something. Margaret hadn't left him empty-handed. She had left him memories. She had left him Emily. She had left him Ruth. And somehow—she had left him the courage to find his way back to life.
Art lifted his coffee cup. "To Margaret."
Everyone raised their cups. "To Margaret."
He smiled. Then added, "And to the women who wouldn't leave me alone."
Vivian raised an eyebrow. "We prefer persistent."
Martie nodded. "Persistent."
Lou smiled. "Annoying."
Art laughed. "That too."
They all laughed.
And somewhere beyond the porch light, the evening settled softly around them.
For the first time, Art didn't think about how many years he had left. He thought about tomorrow. And the day after that. He looked at the empty chair beside him. Then smiled. "Somebody's going to need that." Lou looked at him. "Who?" Art shrugged. "I don't know yet." He stood. "But I have a feeling we'll find out."