On Thursday night—one night until D-Day, as Miles had begun mentally referring to it—Miles lay in bed with Jonah, trading a book back and forth so each could read a page. They were propped against the pillows, the blankets pulled back.  Jonah’s hair was still wet from his bath, and Miles could smell the shampoo he’d used. The odor was sweet and untainted, as if more than dirt had been washed away.

In the middle of a page that Miles was reading, Jonah suddenly looked up at him.

“Do you miss Mommy?”

Miles set the book down, then slipped an arm around Jonah. It had been a few months since he’d last mentioned Missy without being asked first.  “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

Jonah tugged on the material of his pajamas, making two fire trucks crash into one another. “Do you think about her?”

“All the time,” he said.

“I think about her, too,” Jonah said softly. “Sometimes when I’m in bed . . .”

He frowned up at Miles. “I get these pictures in my head. . . .” He trailed off.

“Kind of like a movie?”

“Kinda. But not really. It’s more like a picture, you know? But I can’t really see it all the time.”

Miles pulled his son closer. “Does that make you sad?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes.”

“It’s okay to be sad. Everyone gets sad now and then. Even me.”

“But you’re a grown-up.”

“Grown-ups get sad, too.”

Jonah seemed to ponder this as he made the fire trucks crash again. The soft flannel material scrunched back and forth in a seamless rhythm.  “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to marry Miss Andrews?”

Miles’s eyebrows went up. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” he said honestly.

“But you’re going on a date, right? Doesn’t that mean you’re getting married?”

Miles couldn’t help but smile. “Who told you that?”

“Some of the older kids at school. They say that you date first and then get married.”

“Well,” Miles said, “they’re kind of right, but they’re kind of wrong, too. Just because I’m having dinner with Miss Andrews doesn’t mean we’re getting married.  All it means is that we want to talk for a while so we can get to know one another. Sometimes grown-ups like to do that.”

“Why?”

Believe me, son, it’ll make sense in a couple of years.

“They just do. It’s kind of like . . . well, do you know how you play with your friends? When you joke around and laugh and have a good time? That’s all a date is.”

“Oh,” Jonah said. He looked more serious than any seven-year-old should. “Will you talk about me?”

“Probably a little. But don’t worry. It’ll all be good stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Well, maybe we’ll talk about the soccer game. Or maybe I’ll tell her how good you are at fishing. And we’ll talk about how smart you are. . . .” Jonah suddenly shook his head, his brows knit together. “I’m not smart.”

“Of course you are. You’re very smart, and Miss Andrews thinks so, too.”

“But I’m the only one in my class who has to stay after school.” “Yeah, well . . . that’s okay. I had to stay after school when I was a kid, too.”

That seemed to get his attention. “You did?”

“Yeah. Only I didn’t have to do it for only a couple of months, I had to do it for two years.”

“Two years?”

Miles nodded for emphasis. “Every day.”

“Wow,” he said, “you must really have been dumb if you had to stay for two years.”

That wasn’t my point, but I guess if it makes you feel better, I’ll take it.

“You’re a smart young man and don’t you ever forget it, okay?”

“Did Miss Andrews really say that I was smart?”

“She tells me every day.”

Jonah smiled. “She’s a nice teacher.”

“I think so, but I’m glad you think so, too.”

Jonah paused, and those fire trucks started coming together again.

“Do you think she’s pretty?” he asked innocently.

Oh my, where is all of this coming from?

“Well . . .”

“I think she’s pretty,” Jonah declared. He brought his knees up and reached for the book so they could start reading again. “She kind of makes me think about Mom, sometimes.”

For the life of him, Miles had no idea what to say.

? ? ?

Nor did Sarah, though in an entirely different context. She had to think for a moment before she finally found her voice.

“I have no idea, Mom. I’ve never asked him.”

“But he’s a sheriff, right?”

“Yes . . . but that’s not exactly the sort of thing that’s ever come up.”

Her mother had wondered aloud whether Miles had ever shot someone.  “Well, I was just curious, you know? You see all those shows on TV, and with the things you read in the papers these days, I wouldn’t be surprised. That’s a dangerous job.”

Sarah closed her eyes and held them that way. Ever since she’d casually mentioned the fact that she would be going out with Miles, her mother had been calling a couple of times a day, asking Sarah dozens of questions, hardly any of which Sarah could answer.

“I’ll be sure to ask him for you, okay?”

Her mother inhaled sharply. “Now, don’t do that! I’d hate to ruin things right off the bat for you.”

“There’s nothing to ruin, Mom. We haven’t even gone out yet.”

“But you said he was nice, right?”

Sarah rubbed her eyes wearily. “Yes, Mom. He’s nice.”

“Well, then, remember how important it is to make a good first impression.”

“I know, Mom.”

“And make sure you dress well. I don’t care what some of those magazines say, it’s important to look like a lady when you go out on a date. The things some women wear these days . . .”

As her mother droned on, Sarah imagined herself hanging up the ............