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He went with the only part of that he had an answer for. “I know you didn’t want me there, so I…left before you saw me.”

She drew back, looking utterly perplexed. “I didn’t want you there? What gave you that idea?”

He shrugged. This, at least, was easy to answer. “You didn’t even mention it to me, let alone ask me to come.”

Her expression changed, softened. “Logan,” she said, and he could almost feel the ache in her voice. “I didn’t ask you because I didn’t want you to feel like youhadto come.”

It took him a moment to process that. And no matter how he thought about it, he knew that if she had asked him, he indeed would have felt compelled to come. It had just never occurred to him that that was maybe why she hadn’t asked him. Nobody had ever worried that much about his feelings.

“I know me even talking about David makes you uncomfortable. I can see it,” she said. “I understand, but—”

“It doesn’t. It makes me…envious.” He grimaced. “Which is a hell of a thing to admit about a dead man.”

She was silent for so long, staring across the byway at the mission that had become a monument, that he was afraid this was it, that he’d offended her beyond recovery. He expected any moment now she would say a stiff goodbye, get up and walk away.

But she didn’t. Instead she finally looked back at him, and when she spoke it was in a tone he’d never heard from her before. “Contrary to what many think, my life with David wasn’t perfect, it was just more than I ever expected to find. We had our moments, like any couple does. I needed time alone, or at least quiet time, and he was always going, talking, being with people. I thought he was so wrapped up in his work everything else sometimes fell by the wayside, and he thought I spent too much time on the past, on history.”

He drew back slightly at that, thinking about all the time they had spent together on just that, history. Never once had it occurred to him it was too much time. Nor would it ever.

“See,” she said softly, “you understand. About the history, I mean. He never did.”

Another minute passed, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say. But when she went on he wished he had, wished he’d said something, anything. Because her next words went into territory he avoided at all times.

“Do you think…you’re so fascinated with history because you don’t know your own?”

“I know all I need to know.”

Like that I meant less than nothing to the mother I never knew. That she hated me so much she threw me away. That myfather, whoever he was, felt the same. If he even knew I existed at all.

“And none of it’s good, is it, Logan? I’m so much luckier than you were.”

“Lucky? You loved your husband so much you’re still crying for him years after he died, and you think you’re lucky?”

A sudden understanding flashed in her eyes. “You think that’s why I was crying at the ceremony?”

His brow furrowed. “Wasn’t it?”

“I was crying,” she said, speaking slowly and clearly, “because I was really saying goodbye to him. Saying goodbye and meaning it, for the first time.”

He stared at her, again at a loss for words. He was starting to hate that part of himself, that fear of speaking at all when it came to…things like this. After a moment of watching him, as if she were reading every bit of what he was feeling, she spoke again.

“Yes, I loved David. I will always love him.” Before he could recoil she went on. “But I’m no longer in love with him. The key word there iswith. Because that takes two. David knew that. He told me that, when he told me to move on, but I didn’t really accept it until…recently.”

He was still staring at her, probably looking like an idiot to those passersby that cast glances at them, but thankfully kept going. “He told you…to move on?”

“Yes. He even wrote me—”

She stopped abruptly, a look of realization coming over her face. She suddenly grabbed for her purse, digging into it and coming out with an envelope. She looked at it for a long, silent moment, then handed it to him. He saw her name handwritten across the front, in writing that looked a bit shaky. And suddenly he knew, knew that it had been written by David Carhart. His gaze shot back to her face.

“I brought that with me today as part of my own private ceremony. Of saying goodbye.”

“You don’t want me to read this. I—”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have given it to you.” She managed a slight smile. “And you’re the only one I’ve ever shown it to. Not even Jackson has seen it.”

“But—”

“Please. Read it. And know that I’ve always taken his advice, because when I did, it always worked out.”