Friday morning arrived with rain — not the heavy kind, but the steady kind, the kind that turned the lake into a sheet of grey and kept the birds hidden in the trees. Aaron stood at the window longer than usual, watching the drops trace paths down the glass, and wondered how many years it had been since anyone had spoken Catherine Marchetti's name out loud.
Sophie found him there, dressed in jeans and a sweater, her hair still damp from the shower. She had a cup of coffee ready for him, and she handed it over without a word.
"Thank you," he said.
"For the coffee, or for not asking questions?"
"Both."
She smiled and leaned against the counter beside him. "The proofs are being delivered today. The pressman said they'd be here by noon."
"That's fast."
"I told him we were in a hurry." She looked out at the rain. "I wanted to hold it in my hands before I decided whether it was real."
"It's real."
"I know. But I need to feel it."
