“I wish I could have met her.”
“Me too.”
Her fingers stroke down my neck, sending waves of pleasure radiating through me despite the bittersweet emotion coursing through me.
She asks, “What’s one of your favorite memories of her from when you were a kid?”
It’s a good question. The pain and bitterness fade, replaced by the warmth of better memories. Ones I haven’t thought about in a long time.
“Mom used to make buttermilk biscuits every Sunday morning,” I say. “We would wake up to the whole house smelling like heaven. It was the only time all four of us would be at the table before she even had to call us. Come rain or snow or summer mornings that were already hot before the sunwas fully up, no matter what else the day brought, we woke up to something soft and good and made with love.”
Lila’s hands slow slightly. Then keep going.
Now that I’ve started talking about Mom, I can’t seem to stop.
“There were years I’d come home from hockey practice and hear her playing a duet on the piano with Walker. Or she’d be out with Tanner, feeding the chickens, and they’d be inventing gossip about the chickens and cracking each other up. And Josie… she and Mom loved to garden together. They had this little patch on the south side of Rosemont. They’d grow pumpkins and sunflowers. Strawberries every summer. We’d eat them straight off the vine, still warm from the sun.”
“Sounds lovely,” she says tenderly.
“What about you?” I ask. “What do you remember about being a kid?”
Her hands keep moving but something changes in the pressure. Lighter. More careful. “Not much worth telling.”
“C’mon,” I prompt gently. “These are the kind of things a husband ought to know about his wife.”
“You have good things to remember,” she says. “It’s different.”
“Didn’t say I only wanted good stories,” I say gently.
She’s quiet for a moment. Her thumbs press into my shoulder. “I had a nanny named Rosa,” she says finally. “She’d let me sit in the kitchen while she cooked. She made arroz con pollo on Fridays for all the staff. I’d sit on the counter and watch and she’d let me stir.”
The nanny. Not her mother. Not her family. Before I can make a comment, she continues, “She was fired for sneaking food to me. Mommy dearest had me on a very strict regimen to compensate for my ‘stocky frame’ and ‘slow metabolism’.’”
I freeze, shocked by her mother’s casual cruelty. “How old were you?”
“Nine.” She pulls away, not meeting my eyes. “I’m getting pruny in here. I’m going to get ready for bed.”
I get out of the tub first and hold the robe open for her.
She steps into it and I wrap it around her shoulders, and for a moment my hands are at the lapels and she’s right there in my arms, steam rising off us both into the cold air.
I wish I knew how to comfort her. I wish I could hold her, kiss her and caress her everywhere, make her understand what I see when I look at her. How beautiful she is. That her body is gorgeous and perfect and nothing has ever tested my willpower like promising to keep my hands off it.
I don’t say it, though. Not because I don’t mean it. Because she just told me something raw and vulnerable, and the last thing she needs right now is a man turning her pain into something about him.
“It’s cold,” I say instead. “Let’s go in.”
She nods. Wraps her arms around herself inside the robe.
We get ready for bed quietly. She showers first, then me. It all feels very domestic and very charged simultaneously. Brushing our teeth side by side at the small camp mirror. Her shoulder against mine. Turning off the lights one by one until only the glow of the wood stove remains.
I go to the tent flap and stand there, looking out into the dark.
I hear Lila slip into bed behind me, the sheets rustling softly.
“Slade,” she asks. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping watch. This is bear country. Should’ve come armed.” I shake my head. “It’s our honeymoon, and I bring my wife to a fucking tent.”
