Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
VIRGIL
“ W hat happened here?” I grumble, coming through the door.
Helen stands in the kitchen, eyes round, mouth moving but no words coming out.
Luke giggles, his wet hair smattered flat against his face.
Clara pushes herself out from underneath the sink where she lies halfway in the cabinet. She sits up, hair and clothes drenched, too. “Had a plumbing issue.”
My brows jump up.
“A sprinkler indoors!” Luke exclaims with a belly laugh.
That sound catches me off guard. Haven’t heard him laugh like that since well before Bryson’s death.
Even more shocking, though, is the peal of laughter that comes from Clara. She pushes the hair off her face with the back of her hand. “Figured I need to start learning how to do for ourselves up here. But maybe plumbing wasn’t the best place to start.”
Her words do something weird to me. I can’t imagine her and the kids staying up here much longer. Not alone. Not like this.
But the thought of them leaving? Bitterness fills my mouth. I don’t know what it means.
I put my hands on my hips. “Looks like you figured it out,” I say. “Or at least how to quit spraying water everywhere.”
“That’s because I turned off the well.” She grimaces.
“That’s one way.”
She inhales through her nose, then exhales. “It’s not much of a long-term solution, though. Maybe you have some ideas?”
I’m already rolling up my sleeves. “I’m a much better plumber than an electrician or roofer,” I grunt.
I take her place beneath the cabinet, assessing everything.
“Gonna have to get creative about a few patches until I can visit the hardware store. But I think I can get you by. Keep the sink mostly usable until I head into town next. In the meantime, though,” I say, poking my head back up.
“You might want to keep the bucket from the roof handy.”
“Hey, what’d I have to ask you for,” she teases, softly toeing my shoulder. “Could’ve made that repair myself.”
“No offense,” I say with a broad grin before I think better of it. “But my repair won’t sprinkle in the house.”
“Well, there is that,” she says, teeth flashing.
For a moment, this feels good. Too good. Enough so that I notice the curve of her hips, the shape of her legs beneath tight-fitting denim and another of Bryson’s flannels. My cheeks heat, and I look away.
What in the hell’s wrong with me?
Clara swallows hard next to me. When I sneak a side-eye in her direction, I register how her face has fallen, lips going thin and serious again.
The room feels suddenly heavy. Too hot. Like we’ve committed some joint sacrilege. And yet, when I look at Luke and Helen, they both act calm and relaxed. There’s not one hint of anger or disapproval. No sense of wrongdoing.
It all feels too natural. Too right. Maybe that’s what bothers me most.
“Ginger and Roscoe’ll be stopping by shortly,” I say, pulling my eyes away from her face. “They want to say hi. See how you and the kids are doing.”
“That’s nice of them,” Clara says flatly, hand coming up to swipe at her cheeks. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She disappears down the hallway, and I feel gutted. Like I’ve somehow betrayed everything and everybody.
“So you don’t like plumbing, after all?” Helen asks, frowning.
I chuckle, surprised by her attempt to read me. “Not that, pipsqueak. Just thinking something through.”
“What kind of something?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Just the kind of things adults think about. Boring. Serious stuff.”
Luke closes the distance between us, tugging my hand. “Can you make it rain again? Like Mama did?”
“Sorry to disappoint, but we’re keeping the sprinklers outside from now on,” I say firmly.
“Well, that’s no fun,” Luke pouts.
“I should dry up the floor,” Helen says, already mature beyond her age, heading for the pantry for towels.
By the time Roscoe and Ginger knock on the front door, the bucket’s beneath the sink, and the water’s back on. The pipes are repaired. In fact, I’m a little impressed by how well it went despite having to piece everything together with bubblegum and imagination.
Roscoe ducks through the doorway first, shoulders nearly filling the frame. “Smells like wet dog and bad decisions in here.”
“Plumbing,” I grunt.
“Ah.” He nods solemnly. “Bad decisions.”
Ginger swats his arm before immediately heading for the kids. Luke launches himself at her. Helen tries to pretend she's too old for hugs. But she fails miserably.
For a few minutes, the cabin feels almost normal. Dangerously normal.
I busy myself beneath the sink, cleaning up, while Ginger chats with Clara at the kitchen table.
At first it's harmless. Road conditions. Power restoration. The weather.
Then Ginger clears her throat. “Helen, sweetheart, what grade are you supposed to start this year?”
Helen glances toward her mother. “Third.”
“And Luke?”
“Kindergarten,” Clara answers quietly.
Ginger nods. “School starts in a couple days.”
The room goes still. I don't look up. Don't have to. I can feel Clara stiffen from across the room.
“We were homeschooling,” she says.
“Were?” Ginger asks gently.
Clara's hand immediately goes to her wedding ring. The gesture tells me everything. “We planned to.”
Planned. Not plan. Past tense. Bryson's ghost sits down at the table with us.
Ginger waits, ever a good teacher. She knows silence can do a lot of work. Finally, she says, “There's nothing wrong with changing plans.”
Clara laughs, short and humorless. “Bryson didn't think so.”
The words hang there—heavy and painful and true.
Roscoe shifts his weight. I’m polishing pipes now, trying to look busy. Neither of us is stupid enough to jump into this.
Ginger reaches across the table. “Clara, nobody's asking you to forget him.” Her voice softens. “But Helen and Luke need other kids.”
Clara doesn't answer.
“Luke needs kindergarten.”
Still silence.
“Helen needs friends.”
More silence.
“And you need a break.”
Clara looks away, her breath shuddering.
For a long time nobody says anything. Then Helen speaks quietly. “So we'd get to ride the bus?”
Luke's head snaps up. “A bus?”
“A school bus,” Helen corrects.
The excitement in their voices punches straight through the room. Straight through Clara. Suddenly, this isn't about Bryson anymore. It's about them. Their future.
“I don't know,” Clara whispers.
It's the first crack.
Ginger smiles. “How about we just register them?”
Clara opens her mouth and closes it. Then opens it again.
Silence hangs thick in the air.
She looks toward the hallway. Toward the bedrooms. Toward the life she'd planned.
Then she closes her eyes.
“Just register them then.”
Luke whoops loud enough to scare the chickens outside. Helen immediately starts asking questions about classrooms and teachers.
And Clara? She stares out the window, watching the mountain, the place where she built a life with Bryson. Watching it change.
Again.