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He falls into step behind me, and we walk the whole way without a word. While I walk around the market, he takes my bags, standing back, never saying a word.
And we walk back in silence.
When we get to the cottage, he puts my groceries away, sweeps my stoop and builds my fire.
"Today?" he asks when he’s done, standing back.
"Claude would be proud to call that a fire he built."
His face breaks into a soft smile. Then he reaches for the tea kettle and potters around the kitchen, making us both a cup of my Moonshine tea as I sit on the deck, watching him.
When he hands me a cup, our fingers brush and he stills, not moving until I pull my hand away. And then he holds that hand up to his chest, never moving it, until he finishes his tea and leaves for the day.
"Would you like a piece of toast?" I ask him the next day after we come back from the market in silence.
"Did you make the bread yourself?"
"Of course."
"Then yes."
"Butter?"
"Did you make it?"
"No."
"Then no, thank you."
We carry our toast on napkins and walk down to the pier, letting the breeze carry away our crumbs, and the sound of our crunching washed away by the soft waves lapping at the sandy shore.
"Delicious,” he says when he finishes, scrunching the napkin into a messy ball.
"I was taught well."
"You learn well. You always did."
A little breeze ripples over the water. "I could've learned a lot better from you. If I wasn't so stubborn,” I admit.
"Maybe it was more of a case of trusting me," his gentle voice cracks, and it suddenly makes it hard to swallow.
"I did."
"Maybe not as much as you thought you did."
"And did you trust me as much as you should have?" I ask, even though the answer could kill me.
“I still do.”
The next day, I wake to the sound of splitting wood.
The whistle of a soft chilly breeze, the rhythmic swing of an ax, and the fall of the two pieces of split wood onto the pile. When I step out onto the deck, the kettle gently spitting steam behind me, I wrap my arms around myself, he stands up straight near the wood pile and waves.
Shirt sleeves folded up to his elbows, his hair tinted with sweat from his exertion, eyes bright from the fresh air and sunlight.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Pham."
"Bonjour, Monsieur B."
