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Chapter Two
~ Judson Fowler ~
I just wanted to reach out and yank Mimi toward me. Yank her into my arms and hold her tight and never let her go. Admittedly, that wasn’t a very good solution to our problems—whatever the heck they were. I’d sure find out what they were today. Enough of this.
When she’d come out of the back of the store, it had taken everything in me not to throw her over my shoulder and take off with her. I knew my Meems, and she had misery painted all over her. Her eyes were red and glassy, her cheeks slightly blotchy from her rubbing them, her shoulders slumped. This wasn’t my effervescent wife.
I got her loaded into my truck, and we sat there in silence for several long, emotion-fraught minutes. Words escaped me, despite me having a thousand things to say and nearly as many questions.
Figuring they’d come, I reached into the cooler for the sandwiches I’d made. I placed hers on a plate with a small container of potato salad, a baggie of clementine slices and a fork. After handing it to her, I cracked open her can of Coke and slipped it into the cup holder, before assembling my matching meal. She set the plastic plate on her lap and ran her fingers along the edge while she stared at it.
A deep breath sighed from her. “What do you want, Judd? Why are you here?”
“Besides making sure you eat lunch? I wanted to see my wife. I want you to come home. Clearly.”
“I…”
“I don’t even knowwhyyou left. What I did. Cheezits! I didn’t even know therewasa problem.”
If not for how serious things were, I knew Mimi might have smiled at my exclamation, one I’d used for as long as she’d known me, which was since we were in kindergarten. Only, back then, I’d whispered it as if I might get in trouble.
We had so much history. That alone made this even more confusing. Ten years of being attached at the hip, and now, a chasm had opened between us.
She pulled out the sandwich I’d made for her. Peanut butter with jalapeño jelly. Her favorite. Yeah, okay, it was a little strange, but it grew on you. I’d been eating the same for years now—though the first time, I thought I might die. I’d snitched a bite at school, thinking it was strawberry. Nope.
“I can’t believe you make me these,” she said.
“I like them.”
“You’ve always taken my quirks in stride as if they aren’t problems.”
What? Problems? Why did she even say that?
“They’renot. What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Did you make this?” She flicked the lid off the container of her potato salad.
Reaching out, I forced her chin back toward me. I needed to see her face, to try to read what she wasn’t saying.
“What are you talking about?” I repeated.
“Potato salad.”
My eyes narrowed. I refused to play games.
“I thought you wanted me to eat,” she murmured. Her gaze wouldn’t meet mine, even with my grip on her chin.
“I do. I also want answers.” I let her go, and she faced her plate again, picking up her fork. She poked at a lump of potato.
Her lips pursed. “I can’t cook.”
“Sure you can. Your eggs are…”
“Almost edible.”
“Your coffee is outstanding. And don’t tell me your baked goods don’t compete with those from the best bakers at the County Fair.”
She sighed. “Man can’t live on cupcakes and coffee alone.”
