The weekend after she came home was given to the porch. They read the book together the way she had asked to — the passage with the folded corner, read slowly, in the cold clear light, the lake holding the last of the autumn. Sophie read it, and then Aaron read it back to her, and neither of them felt the need to say anything after.
"I read it every night of the tour," she said. "It never sounded like that."
"Like what?"
"Like a room with two people in it."
The rest of the weekend was ordinary in the way that matters — groceries, the market, a walk to the end of the dock, the first fires in the fireplace at night. Sophie's editor called on Sunday, and Aaron heard her half of the conversation from the kitchen: yes, the tour had gone well; yes, the readings had been full; no, she was not ready to think about a second title yet. She came off the phone and found him at the window.
"She asked about the next book."
"What did you tell her?"
