“Here, let me take him. I’ll walk him over to the pond.”

Frankie takes the baby and carries him down to the cemetery’s duck pond. She has never been to Mount Auburn Cemetery before, and she marvels at the beauty of the place on this warm June day. Across the water is the neoclassical rotunda that is the final resting place of Mary Baker Eddy. The trees have fully leafed out, sparrows chirp overhead, and the sky is a bright-blue dome with a pale crescent moon hovering just above the tree line. She inhales Nicky’s scent of baby shampoo, and a flood of memories washes over her: Her twins splashing in their plastic bathtub. Their fat legs kicking as she changed their diapers. Those exhausting but exhilarating nights of their infancy. She misses those days, especially now, since both her daughters have left for college. How good it feels to be holding a baby in her arms again, to rub her cheek against a downy head.

The walk to the pond did the trick; Nicky has forgotten all about those tempting geraniums, and his attention is now focused on what is swimming in the water.

“Those are ducks,” says Frankie, pointing to the mallards paddling by. “They go quack, quack. Can you say quack, quack?”

Nicky only squeals.

She tries to remember how old her twins were when they said their first words. A year? Older? It all seems so long ago. She is now old enough to be a grandmother, and during Maggie’s pregnancy, that’s the role Frankie was happy to step into, because she does not know how long it will be before she’ll hold a grandchild of her own. In the seven months since Nicky was born, Frankie has brought baby clothes and blankets and a never-ending stream of advice. Maggie Dorian is like a daughter to her now, and Frankie has come to admire the woman’s strength and optimism. Like Frankie, Maggie is a survivor.

As Frankie carries the baby back from the pond, Maggie spreads a blanket on the grass and unpacks their picnic. It’s a simple affair: tuna sandwiches and potato chips, fruit salad and chocolate chip cookies. The cookies are Frankie’s contribution, something she hasn’t baked since her girls were children and her hips were a few sizes slimmer. All this food Maggie lays out only a few yards from the gravestones, which seems a sad place for a picnic, but Maggie says this is a Lucas family tradition. Every June, her father, Charlie, used to bring her here to picnic at her late mother’s grave. It is a way to feel close to those who’ve passed, and now she is carrying on the tradition.

Maggie pours Lagavulin whiskey into a shot glass and kneels beside her father’s gravestone. Six months ago, while in prison hospice, Charlie’s cancer finally took him, but at least he lived long enough to lay eyes on his new grandson.

“Love you, Dad,” Maggie says and pours the shot of whiskey onto his grave, letting the precious liquor soak into the grass. “Drink up.”

Frankie hears a car engine and turns to see a blue Audi pull to a stop nearby. Out climbs Jack, moving slowly as he plants first one foot and then the other on the ground. Despite a year of physical therapy, his legs are still weak from the injury to his spine, and he grips a cane as he hobbles toward them.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, shaking his head. “I left my apartment right on time, but I didn’t allow for weekend traffic. How’s my big boy?”

“He’s probably ready for a bottle now, if you want to feed him,” says Maggie. She slides a folding chair toward Jack so he can sit. Frankie gives him the baby and hands him a bottle of formula.

“Lunch, Nicky boy!” Jack smiles as his son hungrily gulps down the milk. “Wow, you feel like you’ve gained a pound in just a week!”

As Jack feeds his son, Frankie notes the new streaks of gray in his hair and how deeply the lines now etch his face. He has aged in the last year, but he seems calmer and resigned to his losses. Since he was fired from Commonwealth, the only class he teaches is a weekly literature course to inmates at the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Concord. His days as a university professor are gone forever, and surely he must grieve the loss of his status and his paycheck, but at this moment it does not show. Certainly not now, as he lovingly cradles his son.

Maggie comes to stand beside Jack, and she rests her hand on his shoulder as they both smile down at the baby. Although they no longer share a home, these two will always share their son. And perhaps someday in the future, they will once again share their lives. But healing must come first, and on this fine summer day, they seem to be moving in the right direction.

In Frankie’s line of work, there are no happy endings; there is only grief and loss and tragedy. For the rest of his life, Jack Dorian will surely be haunted by all three. He has destroyed his job and his marriage. He will always bear the physical scars from the bullet. Worst of all, he will never escape his role in the death of a vibrant young woman. No, thinks Frankie, this cannot be called a happy ending.

But in this moment, it comes close enough.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We would like to thank Mark Jannoni of Northeastern University for his guidance on university compliance with Title IX policies.

We also thank Linda Marrow for her editorial expertise and encouragement during the early stages of the manuscript.

For her insight and good humor, our deepest thanks to the ever-savvy Meg Ruley, who is any writer’s dream agent. And a special thanks to our editor, Grace Doyle, whose wise guidance and positive spirit made this a better book. It was a pleasure working with her and the dedicated marketing-and-publicity team at Thomas & Mercer: Sarah Shaw, Lindsey Bragg, and Brittany Russell.