Page 41 of A Gathering of Secrets

When he’s finished with the nail, he sets down the hammer and gives me his full attention. “How’s the Gingerich case going?”

Only then do I realize that I don’t want to talk about the case. I don’t want the ugliness of it to intrude on this otherwise perfect moment. Still, I’m thankful he asked. Not only because he’s a good sounding board, but because I’m floundering and making little headway.

“I don’t think Daniel Gingerich was as sweet and innocent as everyone seems to think,” I tell him.

“That can certainly change the dynamics of a case,” he says. “Especially in terms of motive.”

When I don’t respond, he rises to his full height and crosses to me. He’s wearing blue jeans and a plaid shirt that makes me smile. “I like your shirt.”

“It’s my farm shirt.” He kisses me on the mouth, and a quiver of pleasure goes through me. He smells of this morning’s aftershave and sawdust and man.

After a moment, he draws back and motions to his project. “Give up yet?”

“I’m stumped.”

Taking my hand, he starts toward the barn. “In that case I’ll show you.”

We cross through the livestock stalls and clamber up the stairs. I can see our house through the big sliding door and I realize in that moment this is exactly where I want to be. Where I’ve always wanted to be. I hear the red-winged blackbirds and the frogs from their place on the muddy bank of the pond. And a burst of simple happiness engulfs me. I’m reminded of how lucky I am. How differently my life might’ve turned out if I hadn’t met this man.

We approach a small homemade pen, something Tomasetti has thrown together with quarter-inch plywood and a few nails. I see a heat lamp clipped to a two-by-four set across the top. I hear the chirping before I see the chicks and I feel a catch in my chest.

“You didn’t,” I whisper.

We reach the pen. I look down to see a couple dozen fuzzy chicks chirping and milling about. They’re a few days old and about the size of my fist. They’ve got tawny brown backs with butter-yellow undersides. Some have dark spots or a stripe on their heads. Tiny yellow beaks and feet. Tomasetti has placed a galvanized poultry drinker and matching chick feeder inside and laid a few inches of wood shavings on the floor. The temporary enclosure is about two feet square, giving the chicks plenty of room to move around, but there’s enough heat coming off the lamp to keep them warm during the night.

“They’re Buckeyes,” he tells me.

I feel his gaze on me, trying to gauge my reaction, figure out if I’m pleased or put off because both of us work too much to care for such delicate little creatures.

“They’re adorable,” I say after a moment.

“Good layers, too. Brown eggs.”

I look at him and I can’t keep what is surely a stupid grin off my face. “I love the sound of a rooster in the morning.”

“They’re not sexed. The breeder said there are probably two in there.”

One of the chicks chooses that moment to let out a loud, distressed-sounding chirp. Grinning, I reach for it. “Gotta be the rooster.”

Tomasetti chuckles. “If the beak fits…”

The chick is tiny and warm and soft in my hand. I was raised around them, went through a period when it was my job to care for them. But I never appreciated them the way I do now.

“He’s a cute little guy.” Gently, I pass the chick to Tomasetti.

I can’t take my eyes off him as he takes the chick and an unexpected surge of affection moves through me. I’ve seen this man at his worst. I’ve seen him beaten down by grief and haunted by the kinds of memories none of us should ever have to face. I know the part of him that is capable of violence. But I’ve seen him at his best, too, and I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone else in my life. More than I ever believed possible.

“How long until the coop is finished?” I ask.

“A few days. I want to include a couple of roosts. Room for them to grow. I thought we might start looking for some of those galvanized laying boxes for eggs.” He leans over and sets the chick back into the enclosure. “Or maybe something retro. Antique.”

“We should hit some estate sales, garage sales.”

“If we train them to come in and roost at night, we can free-range them during the day.”

I nod, feeling like an idiot because I’m overcome with emotion. “I love them,” I say.

He slants me a look. “I’m not going to end up being jealous of these chickens or some nonsense like that, am I?”