she made faces and
sometimes cried at loud noises. She liked music. Oliver had fun
twirling her around the living room, keeping her high against his
shoulder so that she could see the walls spin by.

One Saturday late in May, he received a note from Francesca saying that
she was coming back that week and that the winter had not gone well.
Jennifer didn't ask about the letter, perhaps she hadn't noticed it.
Oliver said nothing. Later that afternoon, he took a roundabout route
shopping and walked out to Crescent Beach. The log had shifted position
during the winter, but it was close to the same spot. He left a note in
their format: "O+F" in a heart on the outside. Inside, he wrote:
"Welcome back. Much to tell you." That was all he could bring himself
to say. If Francesca came out in the morning, at least she would have a
welcome. Maybe he could get there, maybe not.

Sunday morning, he went out for bagels and a newspaper. On his way
home, at the last moment, he kept going down State Street. He crossed
the bridge, drove to Cape Elizabeth, and walked quickly to the beach.
He didn't know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that
Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The
note was gone. She wasn't around. She got it anyway, he thought as he
hurried back. Probably.

That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring
around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls.
It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a
few years. It didn't seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up
early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back
with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them
to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season.
There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements.
He and Francesca might never have been there.

A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides.
He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing
a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her
eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became
tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean. Getting
closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his
feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back.
She let out a deep breath and relaxed a