I left the inn after lunch, once Dad came back from the hospital and Ruth called to say she was feeling better. I stood in the lobby with my coat on while the winter light turned the windows pale.
Dad had made coffee. He placed a mug on the reception desk, then seemed to think better of pushing it toward me.
"Would you like some?" he asked.
"No, thank you."
"All right."
I had planned to say goodbye in the car. I didn't want the inn to keep deciding how long I stayed.
Dad walked me to the porch. The wind moved across the bluff, lifting the hem of my coat. Miles came out behind us with his phone in his hand.
"Text me when you get home," he said.
"I will."
"Don't wait eleven years."
"I won't."
He looked down at the porch boards. "I don't know how to make this right."
"You can't ma
