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That was just the way it was.
The cookies came out warm, and he let them cool for a moment before putting them on a plate and moving into the living room. Charity had gone and changed into some sweats, and was now sitting on the couch cross-legged, her blond hair loose and fanned around her shoulders, the old, tasseled lampshade casting funny shadows of warm light over her cheeks.
She was clutching the mug with both hands, but let one hand free to grab a cookie.
“That really is excellent,” she said, taking a bite.
“Well, you made it. I didn’t.”
“Oh, I know that,” she said. “I’m complimenting myself, but thanking you. It was... What a strange day.”
“Yeah.”
If he got married, he would lose these quiet evenings. This time with Charity. Because it wasn’t like he could leave his wife at home and come here. He might think of Charity like family. But he knew that he would have a harder time convincing a wife of that. Not Fia Sullivan, though. Fia knew him. She knew Charity. Maybe it would be... Maybe it would be normal to her. Reasonable.
But by then, Charity would probably be married to Byron, and he would be bringing her cookies and tea, and maybe sitting in that armchair with an afghan over his lap in exactly the same way that Albert Wyatt had done. They would play board games, probably. Or maybe just talk about the weather.
Things were going to change. There was no getting around that. So he better make sure that he had something to fill his life when she was...
Hell.
The guy was coming to visit, too, which probably meant that they would actually take some steps toward getting married. He had always been a bit surprised that she hadn’t hurried up and done it while her father was still alive. But it didn’t really seem like her dad seeing her get married was her priority. It was more living out all of that sweet, quiet life she’d had with him, until she couldn’t have it anymore, was the priority.
She hadn’t wanted to change anything before then.
Now she needed something else.
Great. Sit there and psychoanalyze her so you don’t have to think about your own self.
Whatever.
“I don’t know that I like the beetles,” she said.
“That’s kind of random. But not even ‘Hey Jude?’”
“Not the band. The beetles on the wall.”
“Oh.” He looked over his shoulder. At the bug collection hanging there. “You don’t have to keep them.”
“I guess not. But he loved them. They were his. I think he thought pretty highly of them.”
“Yeah. But it doesn’t matter. He isn’t here to look at them.”
Charity suddenly looked impossibly small and sad.
“I know that what you’re saying is true. But... I kind of like the idea that he still can.”
“I didn’t say he couldn’t,” Lachlan said, suddenly feeling like his hands were too big and his tongue was clumsy. Because God knew he didn’t have any experience dealing with people’s fragile emotions.
He’d been there for Charity in the wake of her father’s death, but she’d been oddly stoic during that time. Maybe because she had known it was coming. Maybe because so much of the mourning had been done in bits and pieces in the time leading up to his death.
It had never seemed to hit with a cymbal crash. Her father had slipped away, but the grief had continued on. A reverberating echo that sometimes grew and sometimes seemed to ebb.
Right now he could see that it was a swell, about to break over her.
“You could put them in a different room. That way, if he wants to check in, he could check in on them specifically. You can put them in his bedroom.”
“Yeah. That’s a good idea,” she said, smiling. “I’m sorry. I know it’s silly. Given that I work adjacent to science, I guess I should have a more scientific mind about it all. But I can just still feel him.”
