Two of Sam’s construction friends, Mick and Harry, often came over to watch the games, and when they saw Sam wouldn’t, they took it upon themselves to teach Ellis the rules. Ellis liked those times, sitting on the couch with the three men watching sports. Mick always joked, Harry had almost poetic insights about life, and Sam made terse comments that were often unintentionally hilarious.

Ellis had never felt anything like that camaraderie with her mother. Usually she had been too drunk or stoned to share anything real with Ellis, especially during her last years. She mostly alternated between silence and ranting about nothing. Sometimes she’d say strange things she believed to be great wisdom, though they were nothing of the kind. Most of the time, Ellis and her mother had lived in unconnected parallel worlds.

The day before Ellis left Youngstown to attend Cornell University on scholarship, Sam, Mick, and Harry sent her off with a little party. By then, the men were in their eighties. Harry had been diagnosed with lung cancer, and he was soon leaving Youngstown to live with his son. The farewell cake had Steelers and Pirates logos, and Mick and Harry gave Ellis money to help her at college. Sam gave her quite a bit of money, and that week he’d surprised her with an old Chevy sedan to take to Ithaca.

Ellis cried and hugged the three men, and for the hundredth time, Mick said there was no way a girl that sweet could be related to mean old Samuel Abbey.

When Ellis said goodbye to Sam the next day, he said in slow words, “Well . . . I want to say something to you . . .” He paused before he continued. “When you first came here, I didn’t know about you. I really didn’t. But I soon saw. You’re a quality person, Ellis. I’m proud of you. Real proud. I guess I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss you a lot.”

That was possibly the most words he’d ever said to her all at once. And the closest he’d ever come to saying he loved her. Ellis didn’t say it either.

But now she knew she had loved him. She’d loved Mick and Harry, too. She wished she’d known how to tell them. All three were dead now.

Ellis swallowed the last tiny sliver of butterscotch candy. “I love you, Sam,” she whispered to the grave.

But you were right not to trust me. I’m sorry you can’t be proud of me anymore. I’m sorry.

She turned away from Sam. She walked back to the car as light snow began to flutter down. She needed a drink but wouldn’t until she returned to the campground. She never drove drunk. She wouldn’t risk an accident that might kill someone. A baby, a mother, a grandfather. She’d done enough damage already.

7

“Hello? Hey there!” a man called.

Whoever he was, he was in her campsite. Close to her tent.

“Hello?” he said again.

Ellis shook herself out of the stupor she’d been in for three days. Or was it four?

“If you’re in there, please answer,” the man said.

“Yes, I’m in here.” She fumbled for the hunting knife she’d inherited from Sam. It had been his father’s. She kept it in its sheath inside the sleeping bag when she slept.

“I’m a park ranger,” the man said. “Are you aware you haven’t paid for this campsite for the last three days?”

That meant she’d been there for four days. She’d paid for one day when she arrived.

Ellis kept the knife in her hand just in case. She unzipped the opening enough for them to see each other. He was a tall, dark-eyed man in his late twenties, wearing full ranger gear.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “I’ll pay. I wasn’t trying to pull anything.”

The man nodded. “I’m relieved to see you’re okay. When I first walked up here and no one answered, I was afraid . . . well, you can imagine. Very few people camp here in winter.”

Ellis loved that about winter camping. She’d taught herself how to do it when she’d started driving up to the Adirondacks, and she’d taken Jonah when they were dating. Cold camping with a lover was the best. Snuggling under warm blankets while the snow fell outside. The soft walls and warm interior felt like a tiny world born of their two bodies. To make love in a tent in winter felt deliciously primal.

The man wasn’t leaving. She slipped on her coat and boots, unzipped the tent door, and clambered into the cold gray morning. She put up her hood to hide her snarl of hair.

The man scrutinized her. She must have looked bad because he appeared concerned. At least that was how she interpreted his gaze.

“Do you need me to pay for the campsite right now—before you leave?”

“No. I’ll check the box later today.”

“I’m heading out soon. I’ll put it in when I leave.”

“Sounds good,” he said.

He walked toward his truck, turning around halfway. “Would you like a cup of hot coffee? I have a big thermos in here.”

“Oh . . . no, but thank you.”

“Have some. I promise the cup is clean.” He walked away briskly before she could decline again.

She suspected he wanted to make sure she was okay. Maybe it was part of his training: A winter camper alone could be a bad sign. Could be running from the police. Maybe suicidal. Keep your eye on them.

“Sugar?” he called out.

Why not accept the coffee? She was dying for a cup. And if he needed to do his good deed for the day, she wouldn’t filch his halo.