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“Why?”
“Because it has no purpose. My life’s work is completed, but I’m still looking for something to feel passionate about. That sounds whiny, I know, and I hate myself for it. I tell myself that Grandma Moses didn’t start painting in earnest until she was seventy-seven, so I still have some time. Nevertheless, I think my chances of discovering some new interest just waiting to bloom into passion this late in life are slim to none. I blew up my old life, thinking that wouldsolve everything. It did for a while because I had much to do to settle in. Now, I can find activities. I can find projects. But what do they matter? What does it all mean? Shouldn’t my lifemeansomething? Shouldn’t I have a purposeful life? Shouldn’t it be important? Raising my children was important. What does a person do when her life’s work has ended, but she’s still on this side of the grass?”
“You stay busy, that’s what,” Gage said. “Listen, I like Noah. He’s a good guy, sharp as a tack, and quick to do the right thing. I get the point he was trying to make, but I think that makes a mountain out of a molehill. You don’t need a grand passion that will consume you for the rest of your years to make your life rewarding, Genevieve. What you need is to fill your life with people you love, like, or admire. And have something to keep yourself busy for the next three to six months. After that, see where life takes you. Maybe it’s fish. Maybe it is mountain climbing. Maybe it’s throwing pots.”
“Pottery? I hadn’t thought of pottery.”
“Well, put it on your list. Look, I understand your fear. I feel it, too. You’re right that life should be more than just waiting to die. I’ll tell you this. Whoever coined the termgolden yearsand made us think our retirement years were supposed to be easy sold us a bill of goods. Getting old isn’t for sissies. It’s an aching back and painful knees and sagging skin and bumps where bumps aren’t supposed to be. It is loss. People you love pass on, and life gets smaller. You don’t have the means or the energy to try to grow it again because, like you said, what’s the point?”
“Are you trying to cheer me up, Gage?” she asked, her tone droll. “If so, you’re doing a poor job.”
“Give me a minute to make my point. I’m an old man.Takes me longer than it used to, but I can still get the job done. You are on the right path, Genevieve. You are actively growing your life.”
He took her hands in his and gave them a squeeze. “It’s not the things you do in life that make life rewarding; it’s the people you do life with that make it your… oh hell. What is that term the young ones use?”
“Best life,” Genevieve said. “Oh, I like that bit of philosophy, Gage.”
“Well, good. Remember it. So, are you ready to go back inside? See what Sam Spade is up to at the moment?”
“I am.”
The sound of a child’s cries pulled Willow from the oblivion of sleep. AJ. She groaned into her pillow. She didn’t want to open her eyes, much less pull herself from bed and take care of the toddler. She was exhausted, the good kind of exhausted from a night of being thoroughly loved, but nevertheless, bone-deep tired.
“Mama. Mama. Mama.”
I am not your mama.
Immediately, guilt washed through her. AJ was just a little boy. An innocent little boy who missed his mama. He must be so confused.
“Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama.”
Willow opened her eyes. The sun was barely up. Groaning, she started to rise, but a large, warm hand settled on her naked hip and stilled her. Noah’s deep, masculine voice rumbled, “No. You sleep. I’ve got him.”
Memories of the night skittered through her, and shecouldn’t help but smile. No wonder she was so tired. Nevertheless, AJ wasn’t Noah’s responsibility. This was her job. “I can’t let you—”
“I have this. Go back to sleep, beautiful.” He kissed her hair, released her, and rolled from the bed.
Willow vaguely heard the bang of his belt buckle against the wood floor and the rustle of denim as he pulled on his jeans. She should have argued with him. She would have done so, except exhaustion won out, and she drifted back to sleep.
When she awoke again, the bedroom was awash in sunlight. Willow sat up, stretched, inhaled a deep breath, and froze. “Bacon.”
It was a shock to her system.
“He babysits and cooks breakfast?” she murmured aloud as she climbed from the bed. To say nothing about the great sex.
She really should find a way to keep him.
Following a quick shower and feeling like a new woman, Willow searched for Noah. The house was empty, but she found a note on the kitchen counter. “Breakfast is in the warming oven. AJ and I have taken the dogs for a walk.”
Noah, three dogs, and a toddler? Just where did he keep his Superman cape?
A few minutes later, with a mug of freshly brewed coffee in one hand and a breakfast burrito in the other, she went outside in search of Noah. She saw him walking across the wildflower-carpeted meadow leading down toward the spring. He pulled AJ in the red collapsible wagon used to haul things around his place. Marigold, Thor, and Anna scampered ahead of him, behind him, and ahead of him again.
As she watched them, Willow’s breathing grew shallow. Andy’s son and Noah. There, right there, was her past and, if not her future, certainly the possibility of one.
Suddenly, she was so afraid. She hadn’t lied to Noah when she told him she had a wall around her heart. What was she doing hanging out with Superman? He leaps tall buildings in a single bound. If he wanted her heart, her little old wall wouldn’t stop him.
Then what? Was she ready to finally move on from Andy’s death? Was she brave enough to give her heart again? To Noah. And, maybe, to AJ.
