When I reached the cabin, there it was, tied to a weathered dock. The dent remained in the bow, and Frank’s homemade anchor—a Maxwell House coffee can filled with concrete—still rested beside the stern. An elderly man was patiently bailing rainwater from the hull. I introduced myself and explained that the boat had belonged to my husband. Then I offered him forty dollars and the homemade squares in exchange for letting Derek use it for one Saturday.

Mr. Harmon remained silent for a moment. Then he told me his wife had died five years earlier. Nine days after her funeral, he sold her Buick because seeing it in the driveway hurt too much. Ever since, he had searched for that car in every parking lot. We understood each other immediately. Then Mr. Harmon reached beneath the boat’s middle seat and released an old orange bungee cord. He slowly pulled out a small gray waterproof box. “Before we discuss Saturday,” he said quietly, “there’s something I discovered here on Wednesday.” Click continue reading below