Ivyʹs mother chose churches according to the minister rather than the core beliefs, so Ivy had attended a variety of them. She couldnʹt help but feel at home in this church, with angels roosting in its small side windows and an angel guarding a fisherman in the round window above the entrance. She warmed up on the piano, playing scales, centering herself with each progression, enjoying the rising and falling tide of notes. Hoping she would find a piano, she had asked her teacher for music to work on over the summer. She began with Chopin, loving the feel of the smooth keys beneath her fingers, happily focused in her effort to learn the first movement of the piano concerto.
An hour later, she stretched and stood up. Walking around the small church, she worked her shoulders. The angle of the sun had changed, and the red and gold in the windows burned like dying embers in the growing dusk of the church. Ivy sat down again and played a medley of Philipʹs favorite songs. It had been really hard to leave her little brother for the summer. She began to play a song that had become special to her and Philip, ʹTo Where You Are.ʺ Philip was sure that it had been written about Tristan. The first time Ivy had heard Philipʹs young voice singing over Josh Grobanʹs, she had cried.
Was Tristan, as the song said, just ʺa breath awayʺ? Was he still, somehow, watching over her?
Ivy had always prayed to angels, but those angels were not people whom she had actually known and loved. She glanced around at the stained‐glass windows. Catholics prayed to saints as well as angels, and saints had been everyday people. When she called out for Tristan in her dreams, was she praying to him? Or was she simply missing him?
Last summer, when Tristan returned as an angel, he had heard Ivy. And Ivy, once she began to believe again, had heard him whenever he slipped inside her mind. But once she was safe from Gregory, Tristan had left. He had told her he would love her forever, but he could not stay with her. From that time on, she couldnʹt see his glow or hear his voice in her head. Could he still hear her? Was he even aware of her existence?
ʺIf you can hear me, Tristan, this is for you.ʺ She began to play Beethovenʹs ʺMoonlight Sonata,ʺ the movement she had played for him when they were first together. At the end, she sat still for several minutes, tears running down her face.
ʺIʹm here, Ivy.ʺ She turned. ʺWill!ʺ
He was sitting in the last pew of the church. She hadnʹt heard him come in. In the deep twilight of the building, she couldnʹt see his face. He stood up slowly and walked toward her. She quickly wiped away her tears.
When he reached her, he gazed down at her with such sadness in his eyes, she had to look away. He brushed her cheek gently with his hand. ʺThat was the song you played at the arts festival,ʺ he said quietly. ʺIt was Tristanʹs song.ʺ
ʺYes.ʺ
ʺIʹm sorry that youʹre still hurting.ʺ
She nodded silently, afraid that if she spoke, her voice would shake.
ʺWhat would you like me to do?ʺ he asked, his voice breaking with emotion.
ʺLeave? Stay? I can wait outside the church until you are ready, if that would help.ʺ
ʺStay. Stay, Will. Iʹm ready to go. Come with me while I return the key to the rectory, then letʹs take our walkʺ Will stayed close to her, walking by her side to the car, but didnʹt take her hand the way he usually did, didnʹt touch her at all.
He drove silently to the parking lot at Chatham Light.
Itʹs just the anniversary, she wanted to tell him. Ifʹs just the time of year stirring up these memories. Everything will be all right. But she couldnʹt say that, because she wasnʹt sure it was true.
The sky over the ocean was dark blue, the first stars emerging in the east. In the western sky, the last splash of orange was fading fast, leaving the long spit of beach that ran south from the lighthouse painted in mauve. They walked the beach close to the water, carrying their sandals.
ʺWe got an e‐mail from Philip,ʺ Will said at last. ʺYou, Beth, and me. He wants us to look up his blog.ʺ
ʺHis blog!ʺ Ivy replied. ʺHey! Some respect, please! I read it — itʹs an insightful commentary on summer camp. I just hope the counselor he calls ʺTarantula Armsʺ doesnʹt hear about it.ʺ
Ivy laughed. ʺI guess the counselorʹs kind of hairy.ʺ
ʺAnd very mean, at least to a ten‐year‐old. He assigned the boys their buddies.
Philipʹs buddy threw up on him.ʺ ʺOh!ʺ ʺThat was after the other kids bet the buddy that he couldnʹt eat four hot dogs in four minutes.ʺ
ʺI see. I guess summer camp is where boys train to be frat brothers.ʺ
Will grinned at her, and she slipped her hand in his. ʺPhilipʹs group is called the Badgers. Heʹs the best pitcher and hitter of the Badgers.ʺ
ʺOf course heʹs the best. Heʹs my brother.ʺ Will laughed. ʺHe likes rowing. I canʹt wait till he comes for vacation — I want to take him kayaking on Pleasant Bay.ʺ
Ivy turned to look at Will. His dark hair whipped in the breeze. He had the longest lashes, which softened his intense brown eyes. ʺIf I remember right,ʺ she said, ʺyou promised him that you two would dress up as pirates.ʺ
ʺRight, well, maybe heʹll forget about that part.ʺ Ivy shook her head, grinning.
ʺPhilip doesnʹt forget that kind of promise. I hope you two donʹt terrorize girls sunbathing on the beach.ʺ Will laughed and put his arm around her shoulder.
They walked on, talking about Philip, then shifting their conversation to some of the week‐end’s quirky guests. ʺThe people in the starfish room,ʺ Will said, re-ferring to the suite decorated in a scallop and starfish motif. ʺWas that woman his wife or mother?ʺ
ʺThe only thing Iʹm sure about is that she wasnʹt his younger lover.ʺ
ʺMaybe he is her younger lover,ʺ Will suggested. Ivy laughed out loud. ʺBernʹs going to be filling up her notebooks with characters.ʺ
They found the easy rhythm they had known for nearly eight months, walking and talking together.
Strolling back to Willʹs car, Ivy gazed up at the lighthouse, its double beacon turning against the starlit sky. ʺIf s beautiful,ʺ she said. ʺSo are you,ʺ Will replied softly, pulling her toward him.
Her arms slipped around him. He lowered his head. She would have known Willʹs kiss blindfolded — gentle, loving, asking, giving. She knew the curve of his upper lip, the place between his neck and shoulder where she often rested her head, the space between his knuckles that she liked to trace, and the way her hand fit into his. Ivy knew and loved these things, as much as she loved Willʹs kiss.
But she could not stop thinking of Tristan.
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, IVY STOOD ON THE cottage doorstep, watching Will as he whistled his way back to his; room in the renovated barn, where he hoped to get in some painting. Needing time and space to think, Ivy walked around to the ocean side of the inn. With just two couples staying on until Monday, the Adirondack chairs on the porch and lawn were empty. Shrubs edged the lawn, then gave way to scrub trees and brush that covered the steep side of the bluff down to sea level. At the end of the yard a vine‐covered arbor led to wooden steps, fifty‐two of them — Ivy had counted — running down to a narrow boardwalk that connected to a path through grassy dunes.
Halfway down the steps was a landing, a small platform with facing benches built into it. Ivy sat down, facing north. During the day, the view was spectacular, the ocean sweeping in behind a sandy point, making a sparkling inlet where lobs term en and pleasure boaters moored. On a moonless night like tonight, the boundaries of land, water, and sky were nearly indistinguishable; the dunes and beach were so deep, Ivy couldnʹt hear the waves break. But the ocean was present in the salty tang and damp breeze. It was like that when Ivy thought of Tristan — she couldnʹt see or hear him, but still, she sensed his closeness.