I counted the lanterns from the ferry because the lights were easier to manage than the people waiting for me. Twenty-three small flames marked the Harbor House pier, each one shivering in the November fog. I had hung them myself before crossing to town for flowers, and I had promised my grandmother Ruth that her birthday supper would be quiet. I had said it with such confidence that she had smiled as if quiet were something I knew how to make. In my van sat bruised chrysanthemums, two boxes of glasses, and a cake that would have been better if I had not tried to ice it at midnight.
Jonah leaned against the window beside me, his backpack still on. He asked why a quiet supper needed so many lanterns. I told him they were for warmth. He considered that answer, the way he considered every answer I hoped would end a conversation, and said the lanterns looked cold. I wanted to tell him he was right. Instead I checked my phone. Theo had sent one sentence: We need to talk before tonight. I tucked the phone away before Jonah could see it and watched the ferry nose through the gray water.
Ruth was at the kitchen table when we arrived, wrapped in her blue shawl and pretending to study the guestbook. I carried the flowers past her, then went looking for matches in the old desk by the stairs. The drawer caught on something. Beneath a brass key lay an envelope with a survey map folded around it. The return address belonged to a company that bought old houses and called the result preservation. I slid it under the guestbook before Jonah could wander in, but the paper seemed louder than the storm. I had not opened it when the first thunderclap shook the windows, but I knew the envelope was waiting for me.