“Don’tbe a stranger. The man on the ridge isalwayswelcome at this café. Bring her back to visit. Bring me a Christmas card.Don’tbe a sad bastard about it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The coffee comes with the cinnamon rolls. Tess nudges my boot under the table, Morse code that sayshi. I nudge her boot in return and realize I’m sitting in the back booth of a café in a town I visited to disappear, holding hands under the table with the woman I love.
I’vebeen a man on a mission and a man with ascheduleand a mancounting sounds in an empty cabin.
Now, I’m a man on a date.
“Tess.”
“Yeah?”
“This is a date.”
She looks at me over her glasses, frosting on the corner of her mouth.“Yes,darling,”she says seriously.“It is.”
“Can’t remember the last time I went on a date.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“Yeah?”
“You bought four cinnamon rolls.”
“I’m an overachiever.”
“Yes, you are.” She nudges my boot again. “Eat your rolls.”
I do as I’m told.
Ihaven’tlet myself imagine a tomorrow thatwasn'ta count of hours I could survive. Now,I’mlooking at a future that stretchesweeks and monthsand years. A guest cabin in Montana with two pairs of boots inside the door. A barbecue atHavenridgein the summer that I’llwalk intowitha woman who apologizes to hammers. A phone call toWirethat I haven’t had the courage to make but am starting to think I might.
My futuretastes like cinnamon rollsand Tess.
Chapter 12
Tess
Wepackup the box truck on a Tuesday morning in the last week ofMay, with the snow gone from the lower ridge and the daffodils up at last.My stand mixer is on the back seat, dent and all,wrapped ina folded quilt.
A month of work behind us, and the cabin is sound. The roof is new. The kitchen sink runs hot and cold. The third porch step holds a man twice my weight. The windows are tight against the east wind. River Amesfrom Hollow Frame Studiohung a small painting of wildflowers in the bedroom. There is firewood under the eaves and tea in the cupboard.
Reggie at the lumberyard sent us a name two weeks ago—awoman from Denver looking for a quiet place to remember herself in.She’scoming up on Saturday.We’veleft her a folded quilt on the new bed, a typed letter on the kitchen table, and a key under the planter.The letter starts:This place will ask you to be the person you actually are.Let it.
June arrives at seven a.m. with Eliand Mason, exactly as promised.Sheriff Grangerarrivesat eight withMae, apron still on. She hands meapaperbagthe size of my torso, full ofcinnamon rolls, a quart-sized jar of orange marmalade,and a thermos of tea.
River shows up with a small painting wrapped in brown paper, gives it to me with a kiss on both cheeks,andsays,“For your new kitchen, sweetheart.”Heleaves before I can find words.
The painting is of the ridge. Sunrise. The two cabins, mine and Sullivan’s. Two small, bright squares against the dark trees.
I cry once in the truck while Sullivan is loading thefirewoodI refuse to leave behind because some of it is Aunt Rosa’s seasoned oak.He puts the wood in the truck and brushes my hair back from my temple witharough thumb, and that small, silent acknowledgment makes me love him even more.
By eleven, the truck is loaded.
I go around the cabin once with Sullivan, touching the doorframes, the new kitchen counter Sullivan and Mason put in last week, the casement windowI’llthink of every time the wind comes east.
We close up the cabin.
