Age had thinned her face since the last time I saw her, but it had not softened it. Her silvering hair was cut close around her ears. She wore a camel-colored coat buttoned to the throat and held her handbag upright in her lap as though expecting someone to steal it.
Her gaze traveled from Noah’s scar to the pole and then to me.
“You look healthier than I expected.”
Noah’s mouth parted.
That was what she had brought after four months of silence.
Not thank God.
Not I’m sorry.
An assessment.
I heard Owen shift behind us. Caleb stood near the workshop door, deliberately close enough to intervene.
Noah took one step into the room.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see my son.”
“You knew where I was.”
“Leah said you needed time.”
“I was in intensive care.”
Diane’s lips compressed.
“I was told you were unconscious.”
“And after?”
Her gaze flicked toward me.
I knew that look. She had used it years ago whenever she wanted to make Noah’s choices sound like something I had done to him.
“I wasn’t sure I would be welcome.”
“You weren’t sure,” Noah repeated.
His speech remained clear, but his responses had begun to slow.
I touched the base of his neck.
He leaned into my hand for half a breath, then moved toward the table.
“Sit with me,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Not across the room.
