Her gaze was level and steady. Two oversized front teeth—her only grown-up teeth—nipped nervously at her lower lip.

“Is it okay if I come home, Izzy?” He waited a lifetime for her answer, a nod, a blink, anything, but she just stood there, staring at him through those sad, grown-up eyes in her little-girl’s face.

He touched her velvet-soft cheek. “I understand, Sunshine.”

He started to get to his feet.

She grabbed his hand.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to his knees. He stared at her, losing himself in the chocolate-brown eyes that had once been his world. In that instant, he remembered it all—walking down the docks with her, looking at boats, dreaming about sailing around the world someday. . . . He remembered how it had felt to hold her hand and laugh with her and swing her in his arms on a beautiful, sunny spring day.

“I love you, Izzy,” he said, remembering then how simple it used to be.

Nick stood on the porch, his legs braced apart, his arms crossed. He was hanging onto his world by a fraying thread. Dinner had been a tense affair, with Annie’s cheerful chatter punctuated by awkward silences. He’d noticed that Izzy was using her right hand again—and not in that pathetic twofingered way.

Every time he looked at his daughter, he felt a hot rush of shame, and it took all his self-control not to turn away. But he hadn’t taken the coward’s road tonight, and that was something of a triumph. He’d looked Izzy square in the eye, and if he flinched at the wariness in her gaze, he did it inwardly, so she couldn’t see.

Behind him, the screen door screeched open and banged shut.

It took him a second to find the courage to turn around. When he did, Annie was standing there, alongside the old rocking chair that had been Nick’s gift to Kathy when Izzy was born.

Annie’s fingers trailed lightly across the top rail, and her wedding ring glittered in the orange glow of the outdoor bulb. The size of the diamond reminded Nick once again of how different her world was from his. As if he needed reminding.

She was holding a small designer suitcase.

“Izzy has brushed her teeth. She’s waiting for you to tuck her in.” Her voice was as soft and cool as a spring rain, and it soothed the ragged edges of his anxiety.

She was standing close to him, her arms at her sides. Even with that Marine-issue haircut, she was beautiful. A tired gray UW sweatshirt bagged over a pair of oversized jeans, but it didn’t camouflage her body. Suddenly he could remember her naked, recall vividly how she’d lifted her arms and pulled off her shirt . . . the moonlight kissing her breasts. . . .

“Nick?” She took a step toward him. “Are you all right?”

He forced a weak laugh. “As well as a drunk who has stopped drinking can be, I suppose.”

“You’re going to make it.” She started to reach for him, and he leaned slightly toward her, needing that touch more than air, but at the last minute, she drew back. “It’s not easy to start over. I know . . .”

He saw the haunted look in her eyes and wondered what he’d done to her, the man who’d put that egg-size diamond on her left hand. He wanted to ask, but it felt wrong, presumptuous, to probe her wounds. “You saved my life, Annie. I don’t know how to thank you.”

She smiled. “I always knew you’d be back for her, you know. It wasn’t much of a risk. I could see how much you loved Izzy.”

“Such optimism.” He glanced out at the darkened lake. “I loved Kathy, too, and look what happened.” He sighed and leaned back against the porch rail, staring out at the yard. “You know what haunts me? I never really understood my wife. The sad thing is—I do now. I know what hopelessness feels like; before, I thought I did, but I was skimming the surface. She used to tell me that she couldn’t feel the sunlight anymore, not even when she was standing in it, not even when it was hot on her cheeks.” It surprised Nick that he could talk about his wife so easily. For the first time, he remembered her, not the illness or the crumbling of their marriage over the last few years, but Kathy, his Kathy, the bright-eyed, big-hearted girl he’d fallen in love with. “She didn’t want to live in the darkness anymore. . . .”

When he turned back to Annie, she was crying. He felt awkward and selfish in the wake of her grief. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She gazed up at him. “You’re so lucky.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter how you felt about Kathy by the end, or since the end. You obviously loved her. No matter what she did, or why she did it, she must have known.” Her voice fell to a throaty whisper. “Most people are never loved like that in their whole lives.”

He knew he was going to ask the question, though he shouldn’t. He stepped toward her, a heartbeat closer than was safe. “How about you? Have you known that kind of love?”

She gave him a fleeting, sad little smile and looked away. “No. I have loved that way . . . but been loved . . . I don’t think so.”

“You deserve better than that.”

She nodded and nonchalantly wiped her eyes. “Don’t we all.”

Silence fell between them, awkward and uncomfortable. “Annie—”

She stopped and turned to him. “Yes?”

“Maybe you’d like to come over tomorrow—spend the day with us.”

“I’d like that,” she answered quickly, then she looked away.

“Thank you.” His voice was soft, and came as close to a kiss as he dared.

“You’re welcome, Nicky.” There was another moment of awkwardness as she stared up at him. “You should know that Izzy started talking while you were gone.”

Nick frowned. “She didn’t talk to me.”

Annie touched his arm in a brief, fleeting caress. “She will. Give her time.”

He couldn’t meet Annie’s gaze. Instead, he stared out at the lake.

She moved nervously from foot to foot, then said, “Well, I should be getting home. . . .”

“See you tomorrow.”

She nodded and hurried past him. With a quick wave, she climbed into her Mustang and drove away.

Nick watched her taillights, two bright red dots in the darkness of the forest, until she turned the corner and was gone. Reluctantly, he went back into the house and climbed the stairs. Outside Izzy’s room, he paused, then knocked.

Answer, baby . . . you can do it.

But there was no response. Slowly, he turned the knob and opened the door.

She was sitting up in bed, her right arm curled around Miss Jemmie. The black glove on her left hand was a tiny blotch against the white and lavender lace comforter.

He went to the bed and sat down beside her.

Silence spilled between them, and every heartbeat plucked at the fragile strands of Nick’s self-confidence. “I thought I’d read you a story.”

She let go of Miss Jemmie and pulled a book out from under the covers, handing it to him.

“Ah, Where the Wild Things Are. I wonder how Max has been doing lately. He probably turned into a warthog.”

Izzy made a small, hiccuping sound, like a hacked-off laugh.

Curling an arm around her tiny shoulders, he drew her close. With the book open on his lap, he began to read. He used his best storyteller voice, the one Izzy had always loved.

And as he slipped into the familiar story, he felt for the first time as if he might have a chance.

But it was not so easy. For the first week, Nick was shaky and short-tempered and afraid that if he made one wrong move, he’d end up back on a bar stool at Zoe’s. Every moment of every day was an agonizing test of his will.

He rose early, needing a drink, and went outside to chop wood, where, still needing a drink, he stood for hours, chopping, sweating, wondering if today was the day he’d fail.

Annie arrived every day with a smile on her face and an activity planned. By sheer force of will, she was turning the three of them into a patchwork family, and it was that connection that kept Nick going to his AA meetings every day. He’d be damned if he’d let Annie and Izzy down.

Now, he was driving to the four o’clock meeting. He slowed the car to a crawl at Main Street, his hands curled tightly around the steering wheel. It had started to rain about five minutes ago, and the suddenness of the storm had forced the pedestrians inside, left the town rainy-day quiet. Only a few scattered cars filled the row of empty stalls.

Except at Zoe’s. In front of the tavern, there was a steady line of cars. He knew from experience that every bar stool would be occupied. He stared at the tavern’s murky windows, hearing in his head the quiet clinking of the glasses and the sloshing of scotch over ice cubes.

He licked his dry lips and swallowed thickly, trying not to imagine how sweet a shot of scotch would taste right now. He still couldn’t imagine the rest of his life without booze, but he could manage this one day.

He eased his foot down on the accelerator and sped up. He felt every inch of road as he drove past Zoe’s, and by the time he reached the Lutheran church, the shaking had receded a bit and the sweat was a cold, drying trail on his skin.

He pulled into the paved lot behind the church and parked beneath a Rainier Beer billboard. Taking a second to collect himself, he pocketed his keys and went inside.

By now, the room was full of familiar faces, and it was oddly comforting to step through the open door.

Joe grinned at him, waved him over to a seat.

Nodding, Nick quickly got himself a can of Coke, then took the empty seat beside Joe.

“Nicholas, are you okay? You look pale.”

“I don’t know,” he answered, thankful in a small way that AA had given him that—the ability for the first time in his life to be honest. This room, among these strangers-who-would-be-friends, was the one place where he could haul his vulnerability and his failings out of the pocket of his soul and throw them under the glaring light of scrutiny. There was some comfort in that, he knew now. Honesty helped. Admitting that the addiction was stronger than he was helped even more.

He was hanging on by a thread at home. Wherever he went, whatever he said, he felt Izzy’s eyes on him. She was waiting for the inevitable screw-up.

She hadn’t spoken a word to him yet, and this time, the silences were worse than before, because she was talking to Annie—though he’d never heard it. Not once had he heard the sweetness of his little girl’s voice.

Mealtimes were bad, too. Sometimes, when he reached for the fork, his hand was shaking so badly that he had to plead a headache and run for the dark isolation of his bedroom.

He gave Joe a weak smile. “Trying is a hell of a lot harder than not trying, you know?”

“It always is, Nicholas. You know I’m here for you. We all are.”

Nick took the statement at face value and was thankful for it. “I know.”

The meeting got under way. One by one, the people around him spoke up—those who wanted to share their burden—revealing their anniversaries and their failures and their hopes and dreams. As always, they came around, finally, to Nick.

He thought about saying something. Hi, I’m Nick. I’m an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in twenty-three days.