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think the gunwales are mahogany. Haley’s dad and I spent hours as kids, paddling up and down the shore, exploring the islands. Mom and Dad loved it, too.”
    His breath tickled the hair by her ear. “Canoeing was my favorite part of Scout camp.”
    “We should get it out on the water.”
    “We should.” Peter’s hands slid down her arms. “You are vibrating.”
    She laughed and hugged herself. “I loved that boat.”
    “Feel like bringing it down from the rafters right now?”
    “Let’s.” She turned to face him and saw exhaustion etched into his forehead and around his mouth—lines she hadn’t seen before. “Wait, you’re just coming off your shift. You’ve got to be wiped out.”
    “I’m good for ten minutes.” He started into the garage. “That’s long enough to haul it down and move it out to the grass.”
    Gwen studied the situation while Peter wrestled with a rake, hoe, and spade that blocked access to a tall stepladder.
    “You’re sure about this?” she asked.
    “Nothing to it.” He set up the ladder directly under the crossbar closest to the stern. Gwen held the ladder steady while he climbed, and he told her his plan. “I’ll slide it back, until the bow clears the rafter, then tip it down to you. Can you bring the nose to the floor without hurting yourself?”
    “No problem.” Gwen eyeballed the clearances as he shifted the canoe back a foot at a time. She could see the plan would work.
    She should have known, though, from the bits of dust that slipped off the canoe on its backward path, that she was in for it. As soon as the bow tipped toward her, decades of grime, dust, and bugs pelted her.
    Coughing and laughing and shielding her eyes, she reached blindly for the nose of the old canoe.
    Peter groaned. “I am so sorry, Gwen.”
    “I’m okay. Guide my hand.” She waved it around.
    “Hold steady. Okay, a few inches to your right. And forward two inches.”
    Gwen touched the metal strip that capped the bow. The old, canvas-covered, wooden boat felt like an old friend in her hand.
    As she brushed off her face with her free hand, she flashed back six weeks, to the moment when her friend Gianessa’s bridal bouquet had dropped into her hand, just as unexpectedly. The moment the rose petals caressed her palm, Gwen had intuitively taken possession of the bouquet of fresh, fragrant lilies and roses.
    Now, with the forgotten, much-loved nose of the canoe pushing against her fingers, she instinctively tugged it with both hands. As it neared the floor, she kept her right hand on the nose, slid her left hand along the gunwale to the first crossbar, and guided the bow until it rested on the concrete floor. “It’s down.”
    “Hold it there, just like that, for a second.”
    He rested the tip of the stern on the rafter and climbed down. Together they maneuvered the sixty-pound boat to the floor, turned it over, and rested the bottom on the concrete, without damaging its fifty-year-old skin.
    “She’s a beauty.” Peter trailed his fingers along the gunwale as he came to stand beside Gwen. “Do they even make canoes like this any more?”
    She did a little dance of excitement and squeezed his waist. He lifted a few oak leaves out of her hair and showed them to her. “How did these get on top of it, all the way up there on the rafters?”
    “Must have been a strong wind swirling through the garage one fall.” Gwen bent from the waist and shook out her hair, then stood tall and brushed debris from her once-white T-shirt.
    “Thanks to me,” Peter said with a chuckle, “you need another shower, and it’s not even ten o’clock. Let’s carry the canoe out to the lawn and call it quits for now. I need to crash.”
    When the canoe rested on the soft grass behind the garage, Peter moved to her side. His strong hands caressed her shoulders. “One of these days, we’ll take it for a paddle.”
    Gwen gave him a smile that made his tired eyes sparkle. She lifted up onto her toes and planted