His father-in-law, Bud, sat in the big papasan chair that easily held both boys when they played video games, and Sean, Kate's younger brother, lay asleep on Wills's bed.

Marah sat on the rug in front of the TV, with Lucas beside her. Wills was in the corner, watching the movie with his arms crossed, looking angry and isolated.

"Hey," Johnny said quietly, closing the door behind him.

"Dad!" Lucas lurched to his feet. Johnny scooped his son into his arms and held him tightly.

Bud climbed awkwardly out of the cushy papasan chair and got to his feet. He looked rumpled in his out-of-date black suit with a white shirt and wide polyester tie. His pale face, marked by age spots, seemed to have added creases and folds in the past weeks. Beneath bushy gray eyebrows, his eyes looked sad. "I'll give you some time." He went to the bed, thumped Sean on the shoulder, and said, "Wake up."

Sean came awake with a start and sat up sharply. He looked confused until he saw Johnny. "Oh, right." He followed his dad out of the room.

Johnny heard the door click shut behind him. On-screen, brightly colored superheroes ran through the jungle. Lucas slid out of Johnny's arms and stood beside him.

Johnny looked at his grieving children, and they looked at him. Their reactions to their mother's death were as different as they were, as unique. Lucas, the tenderhearted, was undone by missing his mom and confused about where exactly she'd gone. His twin, Wills, was a kid who relied on athleticism and popularity. Already he was a jock and well liked. This loss had offended and scared him. He didn't like being afraid, so he got angry instead.

And then there was Marah; beautiful sixteen-year-old Marah, for whom everything had always come easily. In the cancer year, she had closed up, become contained and quiet, as if she thought that if she made no noise at all, caused no disruption, the inevitability of this day could be avoided. He knew how deeply she regretted the way she'd treated Kate before she got sick.

The need in all of their eyes was the same, though. They looked to him to put their destroyed world back together, to ease this unimaginable pain.

But Kate was the heart and soul of this family, the glue that held them all together. Hers was the voice that knew what to say. Anything he said would be a lie. How would they heal? How would things get better? How would more time without Kate soothe them?

Marah rose suddenly, unfolding with the kind of grace that most girls would never know. She looked sylphlike in her grief, pale and almost ethereal, with her long black hair, black dress, and nearly translucent skin. He heard the hitch in her breathing, the way she seemed hard-pressed to inhale this new air.

"I'll put the boys to bed," she said, reaching out for Lucas. "Come on, rug rat. I'll read you a story."

"Way to make us feel better, Dad," Wills said, his mouth tightening. It was a dark, sadly adult expression on an eight-year-old face.

"It will get better," Johnny said, hating his weakness.

"Will it?" Wills said. "How?"

Lucas looked up at him. "Yeah, how, Dad?"

He looked at Marah, who looked so cold and pale she might have been carved of ice.

"Sleep will help," she said dully, and Johnny was pathetically grateful to her. He knew he was losing it, failing, that he was supposed to provide support, not accept it, but he was empty inside.

Just empty.

Tomorrow he'd be better. Do better.

But when he saw the sad disappointment on his children's faces, he knew what a lie that was.

I'm sorry, Katie.

"Good night," he said in a thick voice.

Lucas looked up at him. "I love you, Daddy."

Johnny dropped slowly to his knees and opened his arms. His sons pushed into his embrace and he held them tightly. "I love you, too." Over their heads, he stared up at Marah, who appeared unmoved. She stood straight and tall, her shoulders back.

"Marah?"

"Don't bother," she said softly.

"Your mom made us promise to be strong. Together."

"Yeah," she said, her lower lip trembling just a little. "I know."

"We can do it," he said, although he heard the unsteadiness of his voice.

"Yeah. Sure we can," Marah said with a sigh. Then: "Come on, boys, let's get ready for bed."

Johnny knew he should stay, comfort Marah, but he had no words.

Instead, he took the coward's route and left the room, closing the door behind him.

He went downstairs, and ignoring everyone, pushed through the crowd. He grabbed his coat from the laundry room and went outside.

It was full-on night now, and there wasn't a star in the sky. A thin layer of clouds obscured them. A cool breeze ruffled through the trees on his property line, made the skirtlike boughs dance.

In the tree limbs overhead, Mason jars hung from strands of ropy twine, their insides full of black stones and votive candles. How many nights had he and Kate sat out here beneath a tiara of candlelight, listening to the waves hitting their beach and talking about their dreams?

He grabbed the porch rail to steady himself.

"Hey."

Her voice surprised and irritated him. He wanted to be alone.

"You left me dancing all by myself," Tully said, coming up beside him. She had a blue wool blanket wrapped around her; its end dragged on the ground at her bare feet.

"It must be intermission," he said, turning to her.

"What do you mean?"

He could smell tequila on her breath and wondered how drunk she was. "The Tully Hart center-of-attention show. It must be intermission."

"Kate asked me to make tonight fun," she said, drawing back. She was shaking.

"I can't believe you didn't come to her funeral," he said. "It would have broken her heart."

"She knew I wouldn't come. She even-"

"And that makes it okay? Don't you think Marah would have liked to see you in there? Or don't you care about your goddaughter?"

Before she could answer-and what could she say?-he pushed away from her and went back inside, tossing his coat on the washing machine as he passed through the laundry room.

He knew he'd lashed out unfairly. In another time, in another world, he'd care enough to apologize. Kate would want him to, but right now he couldn't manage the effort. It took everything he had inside just to keep standing. His wife had been gone for forty-eight hours and already he was a worse version of himself.