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“Can I go home now?” I whisper.
His arms tighten, broad and strong, always there when I crumple.
“Of course, darling,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
The next morning, we go into town to buy fabric and lumber. Westin says he wants to do some repairs on the house that will take a couple of weeks. I’m going to start making new curtains for him to hang up. He leaves me in the general store at the fabric counter while he loads the truck with two-by-fours.
As I’m paying, I look down. There’s a newspaper stand at my elbow. The top line, in bold, black ink, reads:Remains Found in River Finally Identified.
I look up quickly to avoid reading the rest. The cashier offers me a smile, and I smile back, like I never saw a thing.
Westin comes in as I’m bagging my purchases up. He leans across to set his ticket for the lumber down and takes out his wallet.
“Get a couple of those candies you like, darling,” he says.
Obediently, I take a handful and set it beside his ticket. The cashier finishes ringing us up, and Westin pays, gathering up our bags. He takes my hand, and we step out onto the street.
Everything is sunny, but it smells crisp like winter is on its way. I hold his hand tight on the drive home. We don’t talk much, and the silence is so comfortable. I can see how at peace he is, how relaxed his shoulders are now.
He has everything he wants.
And so do I.
It’s a month later, deep in October, when he comes home at three in the afternoon. I’m out on the porch, tying up bundles of cedar to burn in the winter. He stands at the bottom of the steps, his hat hanging by his leg, sun streaming behind him and the air smelling like dead leaves and moss from the forest.
“Let’s go home,” he says quietly.
My heart hammers the entire drive down the mountain. He packed an overnight bag. Billie sits on my right, head hanging out the window. There’s the remainder of the bottle of whiskey Keira and Gerard gave us jammed between the seats. My book sits up on the dashboard. My hands are clasped in my skirt, knuckles white.
When we pull up, I roll the window down and sit there, staring at the house. I’m dimly aware of him getting out and circling the truck. My door opens, and Billie scrambles over me, jumping to the ground. I tear my eyes off the house and fix them on my husband.
Westin takes his hat off and fits it on my head. “There you go,” he says. “So the sun doesn’t bleach your hair.”
My chin quivers. His strong hands circle my waist, and he lifts me down and takes my hand. The house swims in my vision. He cleaned everything— the siding, the walkway, even the flowerbeds so they’re ready in the spring. There’s a whitewashed swing on the porch and a sapling planted in the front lawn.
He turns me around, puts me in front of the door, and takes a step back.
“You look good,” he says.
I smile shakily. He looks at me for a minute longer, and then he takes a set of brand-new keys out of his pocket and opens the front door. It swings in, and he lets me go first, his hand on my lower back.
Everything smells like I remember, but clean and empty. My boots are loud on the floor. I look down, seeing the faint lines where he replaced creaky boards. The wallpaper is torn down, and the walls are painted cream. In the kitchen, he put in new cabinets and countertops. The walls here are lemon yellow, and he hung the curtains I made.
I stop, arms wrapped around my body.
He did this.
I turn on my heel, and he’s standing over me, taking his hat off my head.
“Give me a kiss, darling,” he says huskily.
I’d give him anything he wanted right now. He kisses me, slow and deep. Then, he takes my hand and leads me through the dining room. The big table is gone, replaced by a pale pine table big enough for four. On the far side, he opens the office door. I lean in, and my jaw drops.
He stripped David’s office bare and knocked down the wall to the adjoining storage closet to make more room. The floorboards are allreplaced with pale, glossy wood. There’s a big bed made up with creamy sheets and a quilt. Gauzy curtains hang over the big window that looks out over the back yard. There’s a soft, braided rug in the center of the room and a pine dresser.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“This is our room,” he says, arm around my waist.
