Chapter 68
Marin
Luke’s truck is in the driveway. It’s been there three days. Neither of us has mentioned it.
I pour coffee. Two cups. His is black. Mine has enough cream to qualify as dessert.
He comes in from the yard. Dirt on his knees. He’s been out there since dawn, digging post holes for the fence he said this property needed the first week he came here.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
He picks up the coffee. Doesn’t comment on the prayer beads still sitting on the counter. Doesn’t move them. Just drinks his coffee and looks at me over the rim the way he’s been looking at me since the first day I opened the door.
Mrs. Mather was sweeping her porch when I went out for the mail earlier. She looked up. Waved. I waved back.
We do this now.
My laptop is open on the table. The Hargrove account. Three new leads David sent over. A pitch deck due Friday. I built the slide template this morning at 4 a.m. because I couldn’t sleep and because slide templates are the only things I can whip into submission that don’t end up in a basement.
Luke finishes his coffee. Sets the cup in the sink. Runs the water. Comments on the water pressure. “I’m heading to Foster’s,” he says. “Need anything?”
“Banana bread mix.”
He stops. Looks at me.
I look at him.
“Too soon?” I say.
“Way too soon.”
“I’ll add it to the list for next month.”
He shakes his head. Almost smiles. Walks out. Boots on the porch. Takes the new steps two at a time.
The prayer beads catch my attention. I pick them up. Turn them over in my hand. They’re lighter than I remember. I set them down.
The urn is on the mantel. I pass it every morning. I don’t stop. I don’t talk to it. Charles never listened when he was alive. I don’t expect death improved his attention span.
The basement door is closed.
I don’t open it.
I know better.