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Enjoying her nearness, he leaned back against the weatherworn bench, while the evening sky morphed from crimson and gold into plum and amethyst. The reflection of the last sunrays transformed the Chisos mountains into a glowing spectacle of ginger and crimson. “This is the only place I know where you watch the sun go down in the east.”
Her gaze on the mirrored sunset, she chuckled in her throat.
Someone strummed a guitar, and he relaxed into a comfortable camaraderie. “After we get back, want to read more of Marianna’s journal?”
****
Luke found packets of spiced apple-cider mix by the hotel lobby’s coffee machine and brewed two cups of mulled cider.
A substitute clerk slid a basket of heart-shaped cookies across the front desk. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” It isn’t Valentine’s Day, is it? He checked his phone’s calendar. February eighth. Will she still be here on the fourteenth? Juggling the cups with one hand, he snagged two cookies with the other, then settled into the same armchair as the night before.
“The dates don’t follow the first chronologically, but here’s a later diary.” Waving the journal as she entered the sitting room, Maeve sported a pink crewneck sweater with a red-heart pattern. Though a bulky weave, the wool sweater hugged her like a kid glove, tapering at her slim waistline.
“You look like a Valentine.”
“Too much?” She pivoted as if to return to her room and change. “I was a little chilly—”
“No, you look terrific—and very seasonal.” Chilly? Rising to his feet, he considered sharing his body heat in a hug but, instead, offered her the steaming cup. “Maybe this cider will warm you.”
“Good thinking.”
Seven. He counted the freckles on her button nose. Then becoming aware of the pause, he tilted his head toward the treats. “Speaking of seasonal, have a cookie.”
“How cute.” She nibbled one as she took her seat.
He sank into his chair and gestured toward the notebook. “You say this is a later journal?”
“It’s dated nineteen-eighteen. I’m guessing Marianna would’ve been in her early forties at this point.” As she faced him, the fire’s glow outlined her high cheekbones. “Isn’t it strange to peek in and out of people’s lives, tapping in years or decades later?”
“Last night, we read about her life in nineteen hundred. Now tonight, it’s nineteen- nineteen. How time flies.” Swallowing a smile, he deadpanned. “Whose turn to read?”
“Yours.” She handed him the diary.
“Okay.” He sneezed as he opened the composition book’s water-stained cover.
“Gesundheit.” A smile played at her lips.
“What microbes and dust mites did I just inhale from the past?”
“Who knows, but that diary holds more than a century’s worth.”
“And on that thought…” He turned to the first entry. “September twenty-second, nineteen-nineteen. Ramon has influenza.”
Recoiling as he speculated about infectious viruses, he took his gaze from the diary. “Wasn’t that about the time of the Spanish Flu?”
“Yikes.” She grimaced. “What happened?”
“September twenty-third. Ramon was too weak to get out of bed. Ramona came home to spend time together.”
“Ramona…wasn’t she the baby born in nineteen hundred?”
Maeve nodded. “If she ‘came home,’ does that mean she’d married?”
“September twenty-fifth. Ramon’s better—kept down toast and chaparral tea. Ramona stayed as long as she could, but the children need her.”
“Guess she was.” As Luke sipped his cider, an idea formed. “What’re you doing tomorrow for lunch?” Then second thoughts surfaced, and he flinched. Am I moving too fast? Coming on too strong?
