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"I know."

"Are you asking me not to?"

"No. I'm not asking anything yet." I lower myself until I'm crouching in front of her, my hands over hers on the rope. "I'm telling you what's in my head."

She looks at me for a long moment. The wind moves in the branches over us. When she speaks it's quiet, and level.

"I've spent eight months being someone's secret. I know what it feels like when a man can't say what he wants. This isn't that. You're telling me, and you're frightened, and you said it anyway. That's not the same thing at all."

"Isn't it?"

"No." She frees one hand and puts it against my beard. "It's the opposite."

I kiss her. I don't plan it, but I have my hand in her hair and my mouth against hers before I've finished deciding. She makes a small sound and leans forward off the plank so that I take her weight.

We stay like that, her knees against my chest and the ropes creaking above us.

Her mouth tastes of coffee and maple syrup. It goes on for a long while, slow and unhurried, in the open air. When we break, she presses her forehead to mine.

"Ethan," she says, her forehead still against mine.

"I know."

"Take me home."

"The house with the bike?"

"The room with the door."

I draw back. She's flushed, her lips swollen, her hair falling out of the clip. Her gaze is steady.

"No woman's ever been in that room. I want you to know that."

"I know."

"The rule was visitors. You're staying." I take a breath. "I'm retiring it."

She smiles slowly. It's the dimple, the left one. "Then show me."

We don't speak on the drive. She keeps her eyes on the road and her hand on the gearshift. I keep mine on her. When she pulls up at my curb my hands are trembling slightly. I make myself walk calmly up the front path, unlock the green door, and lead her through the silent house. The kitchen still smells of pancakes. At the top of the stairs the hall is full of low gold light.

I open my bedroom door.

It's a plain room. A wide bed with a gray quilt, a pine dresser, a chair with a shirt over the back. On the closet door hangs a uniform in a plastic sleeve. A photograph of Faith at four, in a bathtub hat, stands on the dresser. The window looks out over the maples.

Carolina stops just inside the door. She looks at it all with her head slightly bowed, as if entering a church. Then she walks to the bed and lays a hand flat on the quilt.

"It's very tidy."

"I knew you were coming."

She laughs. It's a soft, shaky laugh. I cross the room and stand in front of her. The light from the window falls across her face. I take the clip out of her hair. It tumbles down over her shoulders, thick and chestnut. I let it run through my fingers.

"I want to take my time."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time too. I mean it more now."