A Sip of You(68)

And then William paused and pointed to the picture of a prune-faced newborn. “That’s me.”

“So you are mortal,” I said. “And you don’t look very happy about it.”

He grinned at me. “My mother said she thought second babies were supposed to be easier, but apparently she was in labor with me for twenty-three hours. I don’t think either of us was very happy by the time this picture was taken.”

He flipped the page and there were pictures of him receiving his first bath, sleeping in that two-handed surrender position babies were so fond of, Wyatt kissing him, his father asleep on the couch with a dozing William in his arms.

A few pages later, there were photos of William and Wyatt playing with trucks. William looked as though he could barely walk, while Wyatt was a confident preschooler. “Do you see that truck?” William pointed to the red one Wyatt was pushing. “That was the one we always fought over. I don’t know what it was about that truck, but we both wanted it.”

He flipped the page again to pictures of Christmas. There were his aunt and uncle and his three blond-haired cousins. In one photo, preschool-aged William was seated on the couch, happily squished between his mom and dad. There was so much joy in that picture. No wonder he wanted closure. He wanted it for them, for their memory, as much as he needed it for himself.

There were more pictures and more albums—family vacations, birthday parties, one of William in about second grade with a skinny mongrel. William pointed to that one. “That was Joe. He followed me home from school one day. My father said we couldn’t keep him. He was covered with fleas and half his fur had fallen off from mange. I cried and begged, and my mom convinced my dad to give in. I could keep him if I fed him and walked him.” He stared at the photo a long time. “That dog slept with me every night, and when my parents died, he was the one who never left my side.” His voice was low, and I didn’t want to stare at him too hard. “He’s buried in the backyard here. He was a good dog.”

I leaned in to him, and I’d never felt closer. I’d never loved him so much. He turned the page again and it was filled with images of skinny boys with scabby knees and uncombed hair, beautiful parents with their arms securely around their sons. When we reached the last album, I saw immediately it wasn’t filled. Its final pages were blank, but William opened it and diligently flipped through the last days of his normal life. There was his fifth-grade school picture, Christmas, a family ski vacation where everyone had rosy cheeks from the cold. William looked at one of the photos of the four of them against a backdrop of a snow-covered mountain. “That was the best vacation I ever had. Wyatt and I raced down the slopes, and I beat him twice. We ice skated and played hockey. I must have drank a gallon of hot chocolate a day.”

He was pointing to one of the pictures, but I wasn’t looking. I was watching him. He didn’t need to say it was the last vacation he’d ever had with his family. I knew it, and I knew he would cherish those memories forever.

The album ended abruptly, and when he closed it, I covered his hand with mine. “I can see why you had to go to Canada, why you had to investigate the situation yourself.”

“My uncle is right,” he said, leaning back, and looking at me directly. “He didn’t say it, but he thinks it’s a longshot. I have to accept that I might never find any answers.”

“You will,” I whispered and kissed him gently. “I’ll be here for you.”

“Catherine.” He cupped my cheek and kissed me tenderly on the lips. We pressed against one another, kissing delicately and slowly, holding each other. Finally, it was too cold in the coach house to ignore. Even William’s body heat didn’t warm me.

He pulled away. “We’d better head back. It’s getting late.”

“Your aunt and uncle will wonder what happened to us.” We stood and wrapped up again, and then William lifted the box of albums and led me down the stairs. He turned off the lights and locked the door, and I followed him back to the house. Its windows glowed a cheery yellow, and when we stepped inside it smelled like freshly baked apples.

“Is that you, William?” Abigail peeked around a corner and ushered us back inside. I saw her gaze flick to the box William carried, but she didn’t remark on it.

“We need to head back to the city,” he said.

She nodded. “Annabelle wrapped up two slices of apple pie for you.” She turned to me. “Catherine, I hope we see you again soon.”

“Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.”