“Glad you’re here, Irene. Clara, I’m Frank, make yourself at home.”
I slide into a chair, smoothing my skirt as conversation swells around me. Dishes pass from hand to hand, laughter and talk weaving through the room. More ranch hands file in, claiming seats, but one is still missing.
Then it happens. The unmistakable sound of boots crossing the porch.
The back door opens. Chestnut curls. The kind of walk that lives in a woman’s memory long after he’s gone.
My breath stills in my chest. The world slows. He moves with that same unhurried pace, as though he were born of this place. He slips off his hat, hanging it on the peg by the door before crossing to the sink. Rolling up his sleeves, he washes his hands, water dripping down the strong lines of his forearms.
I pretend to study my plate, but my eyes betray me, following his every motion, greedy for every detail.
Then he turns. And sees me.
In that instant, his eyes find mine. His steps falter, just for a heartbeat, but I see it. His eyes widen just slightly before softening. His smile spreads slowly, like he’s surprised and pleased all at once.
The seat to my left is empty, and he claims it without hesitation.
“Sorry that we’re a couple of minutes late, Ms. Ada,” he says, tipping his head toward her. “The paddock took longer than expected.”
“No apologies needed, Marcel.” Ada’s smile is warm as she gestures toward me. “Everyone, this is Clara, a friend of Irene’s.”
A collection of greetings ripple around the table before Frank leads us in a bowed prayer. I lower my eyes along with the others, hands folded neatly in my lap, but my thoughts are far from the words. Even before I dare to look, I feel him.
He’s watching me.
I risk a glance and find his eyes fixed on me, filled with warmth that makes my chest ache. My cheeks flare hot, and I snap my gaze downward, lashes pressed tight against my skin as if shutting him out could calm the storm inside me.
Amen.
The word drifts into the air, but nothing in this moment feels holy. Not when he sits beside me, close enough to touch. Not when the memory of his hand at my waist lingers like an unshakable moment in time. Not when I can almost hear his voice again, whispering my name as if it were a secret that he trusted only to the stars.
And now he is here. Flesh and breath, real in a way I never dared to dream of again.
This time, there are no festival lights above us, no fleeting chance encounter. This time, I am seated at his side, knowing I’m failing horribly at hiding my smile.
Letters
Marcel 1986
The back door opens,and Eli steps inside, a weathered box cradled under his arm, just as I’d asked him to bring. His eyes sweep across the table, pausing just a beat longer when he notices Grace sitting beside Isaac.
I return to my chair, heart hammering beneath my ribs. That box holds more than mementos—it holds memories and truths.
Eli gives Grace a small, apologetic nod as he sets the box gently onto the table between us.
“Thank you for your patience, Grace,” he says, easing back into his chair.
Grace offers a polite smile, though it barely masks the sparkle in her eyes as she looks toward Isaac. “No need to apologize. Isaac’s been keeping me entertained.”
The look they exchange is soft—too soft, too familiar. I see Eli recognize it too; he gives the faintest shake of his head, amused or maybe slightly exasperated.
Then, clearing his throat, he straightens in his seat and turns fully toward Grace.
“Grace,” Eli begins gently, “I’m going to tell you something that might sound...strange.”
Her hand pauses mid-lift with her coffee. She slowly lowers the mug, brow pinched. “Strange how?”
He hesitates for just a moment, then scratches the back of his neck, searching for the right entry point. “You know what? I’ll just come right out with it. Marcel and your grandmother—they’re here. In this room. With us.”
