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She couldnt help herself. She laughed.
Rass peered toward them, trying to see past Mad Dogs broad back. "Whatre you two giggling about over there?"
Mariah spun around and started hurriedly chopping bacon. "Nothing, Rass. Mr.
Stone just asked for my . . . coffee recipe. "
Mad Dog turned toward the table and started walking toward Rass. At Marians feeble lie, he paused and glanced back at her. "Yeah, Rass, I gather recipes wherever I go. Its hobby of mine. "
There was a moment of stunned silence, then all four of them burst out laughing.
Mariah bent down for the wicker basket heaped with clothing. Looping an arm through the handle, she picked up her sewing box, and headed outside.
Opening the front door, she stared out at the farm, washed now in the amethyst shades of early twilight. Over by the springhouse, Mad Dog and Jake were boxing.
The crunching smack of their punches echoed across the silent, still acreage.
A tingling warmth spread through her at the sight of them. Her fingers tightened around the scratchy wicker of the basket, her throat closed up. It felt so right, coming out of the house on a cold autumn evening to see her boys boxing in the yard.
The moment swelled inside her, pushing at the edges of her heart until it felt overflowing. Her boys. For a moment she let herself imagine that they really were her boys out there, that Jake was her son and Mad Dog her husband, that they all belonged together.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to banish the foolish dream, but it wouldnt go away. The last few days of autumn had been magical, a season of impossible dreams. She could almost believe it would last.
"Come on out, Mariah. "
She glanced sideways and saw her father sitting slumped in the porch swing.
"Evening, Rass. "
He scooted sideways, patting the slatted space beside him. "Join me. "
Mariah glanced down at him and smiled. Lord, it had been so long since shed sat with her father on the porch swing. Her heart ached with longing at the thought of joining him, sitting beside him. Belonging . . .
"You used to love the swing. I built it for you. Remember?" The single, tantalizing word lodged in her heart. Remember . . .
Clutching the basket and flat sewing box, she moved to the swing and sat down. It creaked loudly beneath her weight, welcoming her in the way it had since childhood.
They sat in silence for a while, then slowly, gently, Rass began to rock. The swing glided back and forth, back and forth, taking Mariah back in time with its easy, familiar motion. She found herself relaxing, slipping back into a place and time that had no heartache, •no loss. For a few heartbreakingly perfect moments, everything was the way it used to be. The way it should have been. *
There was only one thing missing. Mama . . .
Her mother sat in this swing for hours, darning her husbands pants, her daughters socks. And laughing, always laughing.
"What is it, Mariah?" her father asked quietly.
She reached down and pulled a pair of Jakes pants into her lap, staring down at the patched, brown woolen pant leg so hard, it smeared. She thought at first that she wouldnt answer her father, couldnt answer him.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling an overwhelming sadness. She licked her lips and stared out across the farm.
"Mariah?" He said her name softly, almost whispered it.
And suddenly, sitting here on the porch, beside her father, she felt a flash of courage, a momentary strength. She turned to him, knowing her eyes were wide with pain, and for once, not caring. "Do you . . . miss her all the time?"
Rass let out a soft breath. "Every moment of every day. "
Mariah felt tears swell in her throat. They clung, burning, to her eyes and refused to fall. "Me, too. "
Rass reached out, laid his trembling hand on her shoulder. "She loved you, Mariah.
