Hitting the light switch, she blinked as her comfy/cozy was illumi- nated by soft yellow light. The furnishings were nothing like the Brad- fords. In her house, if something was antique, it was because it was useful and had been made by a Kentucky craftsman: an old wicker bas- ket, a pair of faded, tissue- soft quilts that shed mounted on the walls, a rocking chair, a pine bench under the windows, the heads of old hoes and spades that shed found in her planting fields, framed herself, and { 115 }.

hung up. She also had a collection of musical instruments, including several fiddles, many jugs, some washboards, and her treasure of trea- sures, her Price & Teeple upright piano from 1907. Made of quarter- sawn oakwood, and with incredible copper hinges, pedals, and hardware, shed found the old girl in a barn rotting in the western part of the state and had her lovingly restored.

Her mother called the house a museum to folklore, and Lizzie sup- posed that was true. To her, there was great comfort in connecting with the generations of men and women who had worked the soil, carved out lives, and passed their survival knowledge on to next generations.

Now? Everything was about 3G, 4G, LTE, and smaller, faster com- puters, and smarter smartphones.

Yup, because that was a legacy of honor and perseverance to give to your kids: how you struggled to wait in line for the new iPhone for twenty- six minutes with only a Starbucks in your hand and an online blog about something pointless to pass the time.

Back in her forties- era kitchen" which was that style not because shed gone to Ikea and Williams- Sonoma and bought lookalikes, but because that was what had been in the farmhouse when shed bought the hundred- acre parcel seven years ago" she cracked the icebox and stared at the leftover chicken pot pie shed made Monday night.

It was about as inspirational as the idea of eating paint chips heated in a sauce pan.

When her cell phone started to ring, she looked over her shoulder at where shed put her bag down in the hall.

Let it go, she told herself. Just . . .

She waited until the ringer silenced and then waited longer to see if there was a call back" on the theory that if it were an emergency with her mother, there would be an immediate re- ringing. Or at least a chirp that she had a new voice mail.

When neither came, she walked over and fished through her purse.

No message. The number was one she didnt recognize, but she knew the area code: 917.

New York City. Cell phone.

{ 116 }.

She had friends up there who called her from that exchange.

Her hand shook as she went into the call log and hit dial.

The answer came before the first ring had even finished. Lizzie?

Her eyes closed as Lanes voice went into her ear and through her whole body.

Hello? he said. Lizzie?

There were a lot of places to sit down in her living room or her kitchen" chairs, benches, sofas, even the sturdy coffee table. Instead of putting any of them to use, she leaned against the wall and let her butt slide down to the floor.

Lizzie? You there?

Yes. She put her forehead in her hand. Im here. Why are you calling?

I wanted to make sure you got home all right.

For no good reason, tears came to her eyes. Hed always done this.

Back when theyd been together, no matter when shed left, hed called her just as she was coming in the door. Like hed put a timer on his phone.

I dont hear the party, she said. In the background.

Im not at home.

Where are you?

At the Old Site. In the barrel room. There was some rustling, as if he, too, were sitting down. I havent been out here for a long time. It smells the same. Looks the same.

Ive never gone there.

Youd like it. Its your kind of place" everything simple and func- tional and handmade.

She glanced over at her living room and then focused on the first spade shed found out in those fields that she planted with corn every year. The thing was old and rusty, and to her, beautiful.

The period of silence that followed made her feel like he was in the room with her.

Im glad you havent hung up, Lane said finally.

I wish I could.

{ 117 }.

I know.

She cleared her throat. I thought about what you told me all the way home. I thought about the way you looked when you were talking to me. I thought . . . about the way things were.

And?

Lane, even if I could get past everything" and Im not saying I can" what exactly do you want from me?

Anything youll give me.

She laughed in a tense burst. Thats honest.

Do I have a shot with you again? Because Ill tell you this right now" if theres any chance youll have me, I"

Stop, she breathed. Just . . . stop.

When he did, she pulled at her hair, tugging, tugging, so hard it made her eyes water even harder. Or maybe that was happening for other reasons.

I wish you hadnt come home, she heard herself say. I wish . . . I was almost over you, Lane. I was getting my breath back, my life back.

I was . . . and now here you are, saying things that I want to hear, and looking at me like you mean them. But I dont want to go back. I cant.

Then lets go forward.

Like thats so easy.

Its not. But its better than nothing.

As the quiet stretched out again, she felt the need to speak, to ex- plain things further, to go into greater detail. But as words jammed in her head, she gave up the fight.

There hasnt been a night, a day, that I havent thought of you, Lizzie.

The same was true for her, but she didnt want to give him that kind of ammunition against her. What have you been doing all this time up there?

Nothing. And I mean that. Ive been staying with my friend Jeff . . .

drinking, playing poker. Waiting, hoping to get a chance to speak with you.

For two years.

{ 118 }.

I would have waited a dozen.

Lizzie stopped with the hair pulling. Please dont do this"

I want you, Lizzie.

As what he said sank in, her heart pounded so hard her she could feel the increase in blood pressure all across her chest and face.

Ive never stopped wanting you, Lizzie. Thinking about you. Wish- ing you were with me. Hell, I feel like Ive been in a relationship with a ghost. I see you on the streets of New York constantly, some blond woman passing me by on the sidewalk" maybe it was the way she had her hair, or the sunglasses, or it was the color of her blue jeans. I see you in my dreams every night" youre so real that I can touch you, feel you, be with you.

Youve got to stop.

I cant. Lizzie . . . I cant.

Closing her eyes, she started to weep in the solitude of her oh- so- modest farmhouse, the one she had bought and was almost finished pay- ing for, the very best symbol of why she didnt need a man in her life now or ever.

Are you crying? he whispered.

No, she choked out after a moment. Im not.

Are you lying?

Yes. I am.

{ 119 }.

THIRTEEN.

A s Lane stared across at the old still that had been made by one of his ancestors, he knew he was under the legal alco- hol limit to drive a car, but that wasnt going to last. At his hip was a bottle of No. 15 that hed snagged from a shipping carton, and although he hadnt cracked the seal on it, he had every intention of drinking the thing dry.

All around him, the Old Site was dark, and hed been surprised that the lock pad and the security alarm had had the same codes as before.

Then again, he would have broken in if hed had to. He felt some com- pelling drive to be here . . . as if connecting to his familys beginnings would somehow improve where he was at.

He knew he should leave Lizzie alone.

Im sorry, he muttered. I want to say all the right things, do the right things, and I know Im not. I know I didnt. Goddamn it, Lizzie.

He cocked his head to the side and held the phone between his shoulder and his ear. Picking up the bourbon, he opened the bottle and put it to his mouth.

The idea hed made her cry again ate him alive.

{ 120 }.

Are you drinking? she asked.

Its either that or bang my head into a wall until it bleeds.

As she exhaled, he took another pull. And a third.

When he was finished swallowing and the burn down his throat had eased, he asked the question hed been dreading the answer to. Are you with someone else?

She took a long time to answer. No.

Now he was the one exhaling. I dont believe in God, but at this moment? Im willing to call mself a Christian.

What if I dont want you anymore? What are you going to do then?

Are you saying thats true?

Maybe.

He closed his eyes. Then Ill back off. Itll ruin me . . . but Ill go away.

More quiet. Which he passed by working on his bottle.

Friends, she said eventually. Thats as far as Im going. Thats all I can do.

Okay. I respect that.

He could hear the relief in her voice: Thank you"

But, he interjected, what exactly does that mean?

Excuse me?

Well, friends . . . like, what is that? I can call you, right? And friends can share a meal now and then so they keep each other up on the news" you know, divorces, moving plans, new directions, this kind of thing.

Lane.