Skye was a radiant bride, as I knew she would be. But I won’t lie; it hasn’t been easy seeing her so happy all weekend and knowing it’s all a sham. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, Dr. K. But I played my part, and when I had to, I closed my eyes and thought of Heather, and how Heather never got to have a wedding day like this, and how Skye would have the chance again. I thought of something I read the other day that said we’re all responsible for our own choices. Skye chose me, and that isn’t my fault. Skye missed the red flags—they were there, Dr. K—and that isn’t my fault, either. At the end of the day Skye isn’t a victim; she’s a girl who didn’t have her eyes open, who chose emotion over pragmatism. Survival of the fittest is a legitimate thing.

#burkeisskyehigh, that’s what the kids are saying, and I know enough to know what a wedding hashtag is, thank you very much. And I am sky-high, quite literally. Tomorrow my bride and I are off to Italy for two weeks, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited. I’ve never been out of the country, if you can believe that. When we were first married, Heather and I had big plans to travel and see the world—she was dying to go to Paris—but it never happened. Instead she got pregnant with Garrett, and then I went and fucked everything up.

It warms my heart to know that Heather and I will still have our chance, that one day soon I’ll be able to give her Paris and beyond. She’s content with the payments coming in. She even says she’s proud of me. She tells me that she misses me and loves me, and that she’s ready for me to come home.

It’s funny, Dr. K; when I think about the person I was just over a year ago—that lost, broken man slipping off his wedding ring and slinking into Gurney’s looking for something I couldn’t define—it all makes sense to me now. I was driven there for a reason. I had to veer off the beaten path to find what I was looking for, and it was more than just momentary respite. Subconsciously, I knew this. Meeting Skye Starling that sunny Saturday in Montauk was my destiny, my answer, my way back to the love I’d lost with Heather, my way back home. And, God, I’m ready to go home.

But first stop, Italia. Tomorrow we fly to Florence, where we’ll spend a few days seeing the museums and the famous Duomo and the Arno River; then we rent a car and spend the rest of the week driving through the vineyards of Tuscany. The next stop is Rome to see the Colosseum and the Vatican, and then finally down to Naples and the Amalfi Coast, where we’ll cap off the trip on the island of Capri.

Most of the honeymoon was paid for using Skye’s and my joint account, and some of it was covered by Mr. Starling. I guess it doesn’t matter who pays for what in a family where there’s more money than you know what to do with. Aside from the Wally incident, Mr. Starling seemed happy with me throughout the wedding weekend. I was unsure at first, but I’ve concluded that he likes me. He may not be blown away by my credentials, but I know he sees how happy I make Skye, and at the end of the day, that’s what counts. Sei d’accordo?

Skye and I have been taking a Rosetta Stone course online to practice our Italian. Hers is decent—she studied abroad in Rome her junior fall of college—and mine is what she likes to call “a work in progress.” Touché. I never did have a knack for foreign languages.

I guess I’d better get packing, then. It’s not every day you jet off on a two-week vacation to Italy, first-class, all expenses paid. Skye says there are orange trees in Capri, and the best pizza in the world in Naples, and wine that runs down your throat like velvet in Tuscany. Tonight I’ll dream of it all, and tomorrow I’ll wake up in my dream.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Heather

JUNE 1990

The day I turned seventeen—my golden birthday—Libby suggested we pack a picnic and drive to Chazy Lake. This windy but beautiful day, the piercing blue sky was cloudless and bright.

Even Peter decided to take the day off and come along, and the six of us crammed into the Caravan and headed east toward the lake.

We set up our picnic on a small beach where the boys could wade. Gus was cranky when I told him he had to wear floaties in the water.

“Nate isn’t wearing floaties!” Gus pouted and kicked at the sand.

“Gus, come here.” I pulled him onto my lap. “Nate knows how to swim. You’re still learning how to swim, remember?”

“I learned how to swim in Ba-muda, Heddah!” He punched his little fist against my shoulder.

“You took a couple of lessons in Bermuda, that’s right, bud.” I rubbed his back. “And you can practice some more today, and you’ll be swimming on your own in no time. But for now, I want you wearing those floaties. No buts about it.”

Gus scrunched his nose and ran over toward Nate, who was digging a hole in the sand. Libby propped the baby up on the picnic blanket in front of a pile of toys. Peter had his camera out and was squatted down on the shore, snapping photographs of the mountains peeking up behind the cobalt-blue lake.

Libby opened the cooler and removed a wheel of Brie cheese along with some crackers and a bottle of champagne. A gust of wind blew strands of pale hair in front of her face.

“So blustery today! How about a glass for the birthday girl?”

“Aw, Lib!” I smiled. “You know, your kids are luckier than they realize. You are the coolest mom ever.”

Libby rolled her eyes. “We’ll see. I’ll probably become a complete warden about their drinking. Tell me the truth—am I totally out of line letting you drink a little with me?”

“Are you kidding? Most of the kids I grew up with were getting drunk when they were twelve. Parents in Langs Valley are hardly around, and if they are, they’re not paying attention.”

“Yes, but that’s not exactly the behavior I want to aspire to.” Libby’s eyes softened. “My mother was so strict about alcohol—when I was your age she found a six-pack of beer under my bed and grounded me for a month. I hated the way she was. So I always told myself I’d be cool about letting my kids have a glass of wine or two, as long as they did it with me, under my roof. We’ll see if it actually happens.”

I watched her pour champagne into two paper cups. She wore white shorts and a red bikini top, her long flaxen hair falling loose past her svelte shoulders. Her stomach was pale and perfectly flat, even after two babies.

“So I’m your guinea pig?”

“Something like that.” Libby grinned, her brown eyes sparkling. “Though you’re more like a little sister to me than a daughter.”

“True. If I was your daughter, you would’ve been…”

“Thirteen when you were born. Not even possible. I didn’t get my period till I was fourteen. Late bloomer.… Careful, guys! The water’s rough today. Not too far out.” Libby stood on her knees and squinted toward the lake, where the boys were splashing around in the shallow water. Whitecaps were visible in the distance. “And you listen to your sister and keep those floaties on, Gussie!”

“Cheers, Lib.” I tapped my paper cup against her own. The champagne was fizzy and cold down my throat.

“Cheers, beautiful birthday girl. May all your dreams come true. Hey, Pete! How about a glass of bubbly, love?”

Peter stood and walked over to the blanket. He placed one hand on the back of Libby’s head. “I’m actually going to take a little stroll, if you girls don’t mind. I want to get some different shots of the lake.”

“Of course. Have a nice stroll. Heather and I will hold down the fort.”

Peter leaned down to kiss his wife, and the image of Burke outside the A&P rushed into my mind.

Libby refilled our cups and we sat basking in the sunshine, chatting into the afternoon while the boys continued to wade. The lake was beautiful, and not as crowded as I remembered it from years past. The sun sat high in the sky, warming us despite the wind and casting a shimmery glow over the velvety-blue water. At one end of the beach a couple of rowboats were tied to a floating dock, their hulls bobbing in the waves. At the other end was a water trampoline with blue-and-yellow-striped sides, about thirty meters out from shore.

“Oooh, Mom!” Nate exclaimed. “I wanna go jump on that trampoline! Can I?”

“Not now, sweetie,” Libby told her son. “You can’t swim there by yourself. When Daddy gets back from his walk, he can take you.”

All of a sudden, the baby let out a sharp cry. Libby and I whipped our heads around as her eyes filled with tears, a couple of yellow jackets circling her tiny body. Her face grew red and scrunched, her little mouth gaped open, and I heard the wails in my head before they escaped her lungs.

“Oh, my baby girl!” Libby snatched her daughter up and hurried her away from the yellow jackets. “Shoot, Heather. I think she got stung.” Libby pointed to the baby’s upper arm, a small crimson dot surrounded by a circle of puffy white skin, as she continued to scream. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard her cry like this, Heather! She’s never gotten stung before. What if she’s allergic?” Libby’s voice was panicked, hollow with fear.

“I—I don’t know. It looks like a normal beesting to me. Wouldn’t it look different if she was allergic?”

“I have no idea! I’ve just never heard her scream like this. I don’t know what to do. Shit! Where’s Peter? Can you find Peter?”

I resisted the urge to tell Libby that I had heard her daughter scream like this—I knew Libby had, too. But I understood the way she was as a mother—nothing like my own had been—and that my attempts to calm her down would be futile. The most productive thing I could do would be to look for her husband.

“I’ll go find Peter.” I scrambled to stand.