T he day after Brookfield I knew. It was time for change.

   I used my new fortune, part of it anyway, to buy a computer. Jeff set it up for me and Cassidy showed me how to surf the net, because I’d never used a computer before, even though Jason and Brian had each owned one. A week later, my dad came down and installed some accounting software. Then he helped me make a spreadsheet with all of my clients’ names and how much each of them paid. Yearly, monthly, weekly, hourly. I printed it out and studied the figures. And that’s when I knew.

   My time was worth more. I was worth more.

   And so I sent out a brief, polite letter to each of my clients, raising my rates. Private homes that paid on time and businesses that didn’t. I raised them more than I thought I would, but less than I could have. And then I waited. For the irate calls and letters that said, we’ve decided to go with someone else. But there were none.

   So I took the next step. I hit the pavement and got even more work. Office jobs, mostly, and some of them were outside of New Mills. But not just for me. Zeke had told me about a girl he’d hired in the spring. She was a nice girl, he said, and a very hard worker. Honest and polite. The problem was that she spent so much time cleaning that she neglected the customers. And I knew what that meant:

   And I did. Because lots of businesses are still leaving the state, sending more jobs South and East. So if you have the opportunity to create a new job then it’s your responsibility to do it. And even though working for a small cleaning company isn’t the same as being a lawyer or a doctor or any of those other professions that make people say, ‘Oh...’ in that reverent, awestruck way, at least it’s a job. It’s better than working for minimum wage and tips that aren’t big enough. And maybe—with hard work and focus—it will lead to bigger and better things.

   For me it meant that I still got paid even when I wasn’t working. And it meant lots more free time. Time to take walks through town and visit with Laura and watch the sunset. Time to paint and read and play with Cassidy. To watch Red Sox games at Zeke’s. Even though Zeke isn’t there as often as he used to be. Because there are more than seven mugs in his sink again. Dean lives there with him now, and he really is just as hot as Rachel once said he was. He’s like sunlight, like Bo Duke, all blonde and blue. So now Donny pours the beers at the bar two or three times a week, and he’s discovered that it really does take some brains to do it. It takes brains and heart and two strong shoulders. He’s got all those things, even more so now that he’s a married man. He’s not as good as Zeke, but he’ll get there someday.

   And as July rolled along I felt better with every week that passed. Healthier. Stronger. But I still missed Brian, missed him more with each day that passed and not less. And on those fitful nights when I was wide awake, tossing and turning in my bed, restless and lonely...sometimes I still needed him to help me drift off to sleep. Even if it was only in my mind.

   Then came the first Thursday of August, the one that meant it was just over seven months since Rachel died. There was a letter in my mailbox and I had to sit down before I could open it. Because it was from my mother.

   It was a brief letter. Dispassionate, but nice. From Nice. In it she told me about The South of France. About wine and music and the Colline du Château; about figs that were sweet and water that was Mediterranean Blue. And when, at the very end of her letter, she told me about art she’d seen at galleries she’d visited I wondered if that meant she’d been thinking about me.

   After I’d read through it three times I picked up a pen and my pretty, floral stationary and sat at my new desk. I thought about blueberries that were just now ripe and filled with sweet juice. About maple trees that whispered and rustled in the breeze, even here in the middle of town. About a documentary I’d bought recently about Bill Lee. He’d gone to Cuba to play baseball with people who didn’t care about money and agents and endorsements; they just loved to play the game. And it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. But when I put my pen to the paper I didn’t tell my mother about any of them.

   I told her instead about Matthew and how big he was getting. Told her that his laugh sounded just like bells pealing from heaven. That I was looking forward to meeting Caleb, his little brother, who would come in just a few months; and I wondered if this baby would get Kim’s eyes. I told her about Jason’s wedding, in case no one else had; told her that she should have just enough time to send him a nice gift from Nice. After all, he’s still family.

   I told her about Brian and how much I still loved him. And about Rachel. That when I think about her I sometimes still cry. And that sometimes I wonder, even though I shouldn’t, what I could have done differently. Then I told her about a warm, clear, beautiful night just the weekend before. I was lying on the lawn, looking up at the sky and I saw her there, Mother. I saw them. Alice and Rachel and Wendy, winking down at me. Because they’re much too restless to stay cooped up in heaven. God has to let them out at night to play.

   And when Laura dropped Cassidy off a few minutes later we walked to the post office together and dropped the letter into the Out of Town bin instead of putting it in my mailbox. Because that meant my letter would go out a day earlier. It meant that she’d get it a day earlier. And that maybe, someday soon, another one would come for me. A letter that was filled with my mother’s thoughts, instead of the sights and sounds and tastes of France. Maybe not. And that was alright. Either way.

   Two mornings later there was another surprise, but not inside my mailbox. It was the day I ran into Brian. At the grocery store. In the bread aisle. Not that I hadn’t seen him around town since we’d buried Rachel. I had, of course, because it’s a small town and you can’t help it. But it was my first face to face, oh my God, there he is, I can’t get away from him encounter.

   We both came to a complete stop and stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. He was dressed in his work clothes and his jaw was covered with a faint black shadow, with the scratchy early morning whiskers that I’d always loved. He was a little thinner and a lot darker than I’d ever seen him. And his eyes, of course, were still Van Dyke brown.

   I knew a little bit about what was going on with him, because Zeke kept me informed. Brian was so thin and so dark because he’d been doing a lot of extra outside work. Not just for his clients, but for himself. He’d moved out of the Burke’s house in early July, bought Charlie’s old place; the house and the ten acres of land that went with it. Charlie hadn’t rented it out again after Brian and I left because he didn’t have the heart to do it. And because it really was run down. And when he decided to move to Florida he offered it to Brian. He sold it to him at a good price, Zeke had told me, because he’d always liked Brian. And because he didn’t want some fucking flatlander getting ahold of it.

   Brian bought a mobile home, too, a small, old, cheap one, and moved it in front of where the orchard once stood. He was spending his evenings and weekends tearing the house down, slowly, so he could salvage as much from it as possible. And next spring he’d build a new house right where the old one stood. Because, he’d said, it’s still got a good foundation. Even after all these years.

   And now…there he was. Just a few feet in front of me. Closer than we’d been in months and it made me wish that I’d put on some make up before I left the house; that I was wearing something other than my usual t-shirt and jeans ensemble. But one of us had to break the awkward silence. I decided it should be me. And this is how it sounded:

   “Uh...hi.”

   He only nodded and gave me a weak smile. I wasn’t sure what it meant so I looked away; let my gaze fall onto his groceries. I let it linger there, waiting for him to speak. And that’s when I saw something in his cart that made my heart stop for a moment and then drop into my stomach. I stared at the Something for about three seconds. Then I said, “Uh…gotta go,” and walked away. Quickly. Without looking up at him again. Without giving him the chance to work up the nerve to speak.

   I made a beeline for the checkout counter, answered yes to every question Agnes asked me, even though I didn’t hear any of them, and then I walked home. Without any bread. Without half of what I’d written down on my list. I hid inside my apartment for the rest of the morning; spent most of that time crying, face down, on the couch. It was the same couch where Brian and I had spent so much time together. It’s where we were sitting the night we were too drunk to even kiss, the night I’d realized that he was in love with me. And it was where Rachel had spent so many of her final days. Sleeping. Shivering. Hiding away in a haze.

   When the tears were gone I washed my face and walked back to the store to finish my shopping. Because even when your heart is breaking you still need bread and Rice Krispies and orange juice. And when I got back home again Laura’s car was in the driveway. She was sitting on my front steps, waiting for me.

   “Are you okay?”

   “I’m alright. Why?”

   “Well, Brian came over this morning. He said you ran away from him at the market.”

   I grabbed tighter hold of my grocery bags. “I wasn’t running from him. It was only…it was just the shock of seeing him unexpectedly. I mean, I turned the corner and there he was. In the bread aisle of the market.”

   It was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth and I could tell that she knew it. So we went inside and she helped me unpack my groceries while I told her a little more of the truth. I told her that being so close to him, so close that I could actually smell him, had made me remember that I still loved him; even though--really--I’d already known it. It made me wish that I could be there for him right now; now that I was healthy and strong. Made me wish that I’d been healthy and strong back when he’d needed me to be. Because I had seen in his eyes that he was still in so much pain, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Not anymore. And that made me wish that I didn’t love him. Or that I could turn it off, the way I used to be able to do. That I could make the love just go away.

   Then we sat down on the couch--the same one I’d covered with tears just a few hours earlier--and we talked about him. It was the first time we had since the breakup, because we hadn’t wanted things to be awkward. She told me, He’s not doing well. But he’s doing better. He still blamed himself for Rachel. Still felt like he’d let her down and that he could have done more to save her, even though he knew he shouldn’t. His father had been in touch again, and still called him from time to time, and Brian was trying to forgive him. Because he knew--like everyone did--that he’d made sure Tim had gotten what he deserved. But he didn’t know if he’d ever really be able to look at Rick without thinking about how he’d left Rachel all alone and scared. What troubled him the most, though, was that he was angry with his mother for putting all of that burden on him. For not trying harder to find someone else to take care of them. Someone to take care of him. He was angry that she’d left him all alone and scared.

   Then she said that he’d asked her about me, too. She had told him about my trip to Brookfield and the letters I’d written to my mother. She told him that I’d been teaching Cassidy how to paint, and that she didn’t know which of us was enjoying it more. And when she told him that I’d expanded my business and hired a local girl to help me out he nodded and said he’d heard about it already, from Zeke. Then she gave me an eyebrow and said:

   “But…I didn’t tell him about that bartender.”

   I knew what that meant. So I nodded and thanked her. And before she left I gave her a hug and told her that I felt a little better. Because I did, even though I hadn’t told her the real reason I’d left the store so quickly. I hadn’t told her about what I’d seen in Brian’s cart, the something that had left me too stunned to do anything more than mutter uh...gotta go to the man I still loved more than anything in the world. Because she’d drawn the boundary lines and she was right. And then there was the other thing. I didn’t tell her what I’d seen because--really--it was stupid.

   What I’d seen was a toothbrush. Red handle, medium bristle; the kind of toothbrush anyone might use. And it made me wonder--for the first time--how many there were in his bathroom at home. How many towels on the floor, how many mugs were in his sink. And even though I knew it was hypocritical--because of Red Bartender, and because I was the one who had slammed the door on waiting for Someday--and even though I knew it was selfish, the idea of him being with someone else was almost more than I could bear.

   And so I spent the night crying some more. Spent it trying not to imagine him with someone else, trying not to think that--right now--someone else could be with him. In his bed. The one that should have been ours. That he might have had other someones in it since he’d moved out on his own, and that there might be even more of them in the future. And what I tried hardest not to think about was that someday, maybe soon, he would have Someone in his life. Because it was going to happen sooner or later. And, Someday, he’d be healthy and strong enough to have a beautiful brown eyed family. With Someone.

   When I woke up the next morning it still hurt; it hurt even worse than it had at first, and there were still lots of tears. It hurt for days and even into the weekend. But all week long, even through the pain, I knew that it was alright, because it should have hurt. And I knew something else: Whether or not he had someone in his life right now, or lots of them, and whether or not the Someone was going to be me…eventually I was going to be alright. With him or without him. I really was.

   And one morning, the last Monday in August, when I knew Brian would be at work, I decided to drive out to his place. Not to look for clues about a someone. Just to see the house, to see how it was coming along. Because I knew what it meant that he was tearing it down. That it was more to him than just taking apart an old house that was falling down anyway.

   On my way there I stopped at the lake, because I hadn’t passed by this side of it since I’d moved into town, and hadn’t really looked at it since long before then. Not since winter. And even though it was August and even though it was over ninety degrees outside and oppressively humid, I was still surprised to see that it wasn’t grey and frozen solid. It’s how it had looked in my mind all this time. But there it was, in real life: deep Prussian Blue. Warm and alive, buzzing with motorboats and jet skis. Busy again.

   Brian had been, too. The upstairs of the old house was gone. Gone. The roof and the walls and even the plumbing. All of the rooms I’d lived in, and that Rachel had lived in, too. Just like we’d never been there at all. Most of the downstairs was gone, too. Just framing left, mostly, and some very old pipes and some wiring. And between Brian’s trailer and what was left of the house stood three piles. I examined them as closely as I could from the safety of my car.

   One of them was covered by a tarp, but I knew what was underneath. Anything that was still in decent enough condition to use for his new house. His Spring house. His Starting-Over house. The other two piles were in two separate dumpsters. One was just trash and the other was for the recycling center. And I sat in the car for nine full minutes, looking at the tarp. The dumpsters. The trailer. At what remained of the house.

   Then I drove to the other side of the lake. I smiled politely while I cleaned the camps of families who were too busy and too lazy to do it themselves. And I nodded politely while the wives--Mays and otherwise--complained about the stifling heat and oppressive humidity that kept them trapped indoors. Even though they had no right to complain. Even though they were protected from it in air conditioned comfort while--somewhere--Brian was working outside in it. Working hard. And I hoped that he didn’t make himself sick again.

   When I was done I drove back home and lay on the couch for the rest of the evening. Remembering, without any tears, the night Rachel had moved into my apartment. Remembered the words that I’d almost spoken to Brian about sorting things into three piles: Things that you keep and things you discard and things that you give away. About saying goodbye. And moving on.

   He wasn’t finished with his sorting; not yet. Even though I was. Even though I knew exactly which pile Brian was in. It was the one he’d been in all along. Because I wanted him. All of him. His mind and heart and body and laughter; his words and smile and soul and life.

   I wanted the rest of his life.