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point the previous morning, helping to carry the kayak down to the water’s edge. One last kiss, given carelessly as she tucked his wallet into the Velcro pocket of his life vest, and she had stepped back to watch him perform the brief ritual of preparation. She could still see him, tightening the chin strap on his helmet; stowing his camera, sandwiches, and cell phone in a waterproof pack at the back of the kayak; pulling his spray skirt around his torso, and finally wading into the water and settling into the boat. Usually the midsummer water was too low for paddling; kayaks scraped rocks at every rapid. July, however, had been unusually rainy, and even the Shannon’s long stretches of flat water flowed at a steady pace. With a shove of his paddle, David was away from the bank, waving to her as the current caught him. He planned to paddle for five hours that day, and to stop midway through the next county, where they owned a cabin by the river.
    Normally Sarah would have gone with him; they knew the importance of the buddy system. But she had agreed to help with registration for the college’s summer scholars program, and David was determined to take advantage of this one free weekend. She had asked him not to go, told him to wait for an afternoon when a friend could come along; even now she was annoyed at his overconfidence, his refusal to be delayed. But what was the use in chiding the dead?
    That night David had called from his cell phone. The river had been gorgeous. He reported seeing two deer, several trout, and a few children plunging from a rope swing. In the early evening he had set up an easel on their cabin deck, painting the trees along the river’s edge. Art was a lifetime passion that David could only indulge on occasional weekends. The cabin was his main studio, and the basement, with its high windows, his second choice. If David was painting, all was well.
    And so, when the thunder woke her that July evening, she had not worried. She hadn’t thought of the river, slowly swelling, changing color and pace. Only now, with the trees still dripping, her mind was full of rivers. As she settled back into bed, she imagined swirling currents, clogged with leaves and fallen branches that metamor phosed into mossy arms, pulling her down.

• 5 •
    At eleven o’clock Sarah was still lounging in her robe, crawling in and out of her covers while cups of tea replaced the empty wineglasses on her bedside table. Each morning she seemed to stay in bed a little longer, poised somewhere between depression and luxury. Ever since childhood she had loved to read and nap in her sheets, slowing time to a groggy limp. Her happiest summers had been spent as a freelance writer during graduate school, when she had taken her laptop to bed. Afloat in a sea of pillows, she had clicked the mornings away, sometimes falling asleep with the screen open on her belly. David had suggested that she draft a special clause in her health insurance for bedsores.
    Now, with The Washington Post spread across his side of the bed, she could have easily drowsed until noon. But when the digital clock read eleven-thirty, she remembered that Nate was coming down from Charlottesville for lunch. She had invited him to look through David’s things, to see what clothes might fit, what childhood mementos might hold special meaning. Her bathroom was filled with masculine odds and ends that she wanted to pass along: shaving cream and black shoe polish and Old Spice.
    With the thought of Nate’s arrival, she was instantly out of bed and flipping through her closet. A visit from Nate required more than her usual jeans and sweater. It called for something casual but pretty, sufficient to show that she was not falling apart. She looked through skirts, blouses, and pants, before settling on a loosely cut light blue dress. Was it too summery for October? Her entire wardrobe was probably too summery for a widow. Stepping into a pair of sandals, she weighed and