Chapter 9 The Apartment
The Apartment
Maren
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The apartment above Patterson's Hardware has one bedroom, a bathroom with a clawfoot tub, and a kitchen barely big enough for my catering pans. The window sticks in humidity. The floorboards announce me wherever I go.
It's mine.
I found it three days after I left the ranch.
Mrs. Patterson mentioned it while I was buying a new set of measuring cups, said it had been sitting empty since her nephew moved to Bozeman.
The rent is reasonable. The location is perfect.
Two blocks from the commercial kitchen I've been using since before Jackson and I were married.
I have my own accounts. Always have. I insisted on it when we got engaged, told Jackson I needed something that stayed in my name no matter what happened between us. He didn't argue. Said it made sense. Said he'd never try to control my money.
He hasn't touched them. He wouldn't dream of it. That's not the man he is.
I chose small because I want something that fits in my hands. Something I can build from. Not because I lack options.
The afternoon light cuts through my kitchen window, and I'm checking the menu for tomorrow's graduation party when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Heavy ones. Deliberate. My whole body goes tight before I can stop it.
Just someone coming up the stairs. Just footsteps. Nothing else.
The knock comes, and I force myself to breathe before I answer it.
Delilah stands on my landing with a cast-iron skillet that looks older than both of us combined. She's wearing her good boots and a shirt I've never seen before, which means she dressed up to visit me. That shouldn't make my throat tight, but it does.
"Brought you something." She holds up the skillet like it's a trophy. "Was my grandmother's. Figured you could use one that doesn't stick."
I step back to let her in, and she follows me into the kitchen, setting the skillet beside the empty spot where I keep reaching for a second coffee mug.
"This place has good bones." She looks around at my mismatched furniture, my catering equipment stacked in the corner, my grandmother's recipe cards tacked to the wall above the stove. "You've made it yours already."
I lean against the counter because there's nowhere else to stand. My breakfast plate is still in the sink. The menu on the table has a coffee ring through the dessert choices. I should apologize for the mess, but Delilah has seen me in worse states than this.
"Coffee?" I reach for the pot without waiting for her answer.
Delilah settles into my single chair like she's planning to stay awhile. I hand her a mug and lean against the counter with mine, and for a moment we just drink in silence. She's giving me space to talk first. I recognize the tactic. I used to think she was just patient. Now I know she's strategic.
"Three jobs booked." I say it because I need her to know I'm not falling apart. "Graduation party tomorrow. Retirement dinner Wednesday. Fiftieth anniversary on Saturday."
Pride flickers across her face, quick but real. "Good. You staying busy is good."
I turn back to the menu, though I already know what it says. Everything for tomorrow is at the commercial kitchen, ready for my team. I don't need to check it again.
"Jackson fired Shay that same night." Delilah says it to my back, casual as weather. "No notice. No reference. He called me from the bus station after he dropped her off, before sunrise. She was off the property."
I put down the menu and keep my back to her for a moment. I asked for that. I demanded it. He delivered.
"Okay." I turn around and face her. "That's good."
Delilah watches me over the rim of her mug. She's waiting for more. I don't have more to give.
"He's not sleeping." She says it like she's commenting on the weather, but I know better.
I move the skillet so it sits centered on the burner. I need it to be centered. I need something in my life to be exactly where it belongs. "Delilah."
She holds up one hand in surrender, but her eyes don't let me go. "I'm just saying."
"He did the right thing." I stop touching the skillet and look at her. "It doesn't undo anything."
The words hang in the air between us. She doesn't argue. She just nods, slow and careful, like she's filing that away for later.
Delilah changes the subject with the practiced ease of a woman who's been navigating difficult conversations for decades. "Jake's coming by Thursday to check on the horses at the east house," she says, and something in her voice makes me look up from my coffee.
I notice the unfamiliar shirt again, the good boots. Delilah doesn't dress up for hardware store visits. "Did you buy that shirt to wear when he comes over?"
Color rises in her cheeks, and I almost drop my mug. I have never seen Delilah Wilder blush in the seven years I've known her.
"Don't start with me," she says, but there's no heat in it. She traces the rim of her cup with one finger, not meeting my eyes. "He's a good man. Reliable. Shows up when he says he will."
I have been so busy wanting her on my side that I forgot she has a life of her own. I'd like to see her enjoy it.
I want her to have something to look forward to that has nothing to do with my marriage. "He is a good man. You should invite him to dinner."
"He's coming to see the horses." She puts down her mug, but the blush hasn't gone.
I lean against the counter, enjoying myself for the first time all day. "Then let him eat afterward. You don't have to make the mare a place at the table."
She looks at me then, really looks, and I see something vulnerable underneath all that strength. "You think I'm being foolish?"
"I think you'd better tell me if he says yes." I cross the small kitchen and pull her into a hug before she can protest. She smells like coffee and the lavender soap she's used for as long as I've known her, and she holds on longer than usual.
I walk her to the door. She asks if she can come back on Sunday. I say yes before she has finished asking.
I close the door behind her and stand there for a long moment, listening to her footsteps fade.
The skillet sits on my burner, black and solid and older than my grandmother would have been.
Delilah brought it because she wanted me to have something that belonged to her family.
Because she still thinks of me as family, even now.
He did the right thing. It doesn't undo anything.
But he did it. He actually did it. He put Shay on a bus before sunrise, no notice, no reference, exactly like I asked.
I touch my wedding ring, still on my finger, and wonder what that's supposed to mean now.
The apartment is quiet. The light through the window has gone golden with late afternoon. Tomorrow I have people counting on me, and everything they need is ready at the commercial kitchen. Tonight I have no one to wait up for. I still don't know what to do with that.
I pick up the skillet and test its weight in my hand. It's heavier than I expected. Seasoned with decades of use. She could have kept it in her own kitchen. Instead, she brought it here.
Am I really going to spend my first night here worrying whether he's eaten? I put my phone beside the menu instead of picking it up.
I set the skillet down, take my own plate out of the cupboard, and make a place for myself at the table.
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