8. The Letter

He's never been married, never come close as far she knows, and sometimes she wonders why. There had been girlfriends, of course, but never anyone really serious and God knows there were plenty of girls in Harlan, and beyond, who made it very clear they were only too willing to take him on.

Reasons whisper at the corners, tiny voices she's become very good at ignoring.

She stands on the porch, leans against the railings and enjoys the freshness of the breeze. It stirs the chimes she's put up alongside her hanging baskets and they sing, silvery notes reverberating on the scented air. Every now and then the porch swing creaks and a page rustles. It's peaceful and it's nice and she closes her eyes, opens them again at the tearing put-put-put engine when the mailman pulls up. A new mailman, she notes. He jogs lightly up the steps to her, flashing her a grin. Dark hair, crinkled, under his cap, strong teeth, dancing eyes. The housewives of Harlan probably love him, seeing him just makes their day.

He hands her the letter and she signs for it, is treated to another of his studiedly ravishing smile.

'Mrs Crowder.'

'Ms.' The correction is spoken softly.

Ava glances at Boyd. He hasn't moved, doesn't even look up, head still bowed over his book. One finger hovers at the edge of the page, then he turns it. She looks back at the mailman and his smile has slipped, features settling into something wary; he keeps his eyes on Boyd and edges away from her. She watches with amusement, finding a perverse pleasure in the man's discomfiture. He drives away, she pushes the letter, unopened, into her pocket. Such a slight thing but it feels heavy, weighted with every dollar that she owes and doesn't know how to pay.

She stands for a moment, sits in the chair beside the swing, curls one foot under her. She watches him, the focus in his face as he reads, the long fingers that are surprisingly gentle against the pages. Strange, she thinks, that she's forgotten he can be terrifying. She bends slightly, inclining her head, reading the name of the book.

'The Unbearable Lightness of Being.' He looks up at her; she smiles wryly. 'Sound like fun.'

One corner of his mouth curls up a fraction. 'Some of it is funny.'

She settles herself in her chair, fiddles with the buckle on her boot. 'What's it about?'

He thinks about it. 'It's about how insignificant life is because we only get the one shot at it and when it's over there's nothing left. That we think we can make a difference to things but we can't, not really.' She nods. She likes proper books, with proper plots, where the detective catches the bad guy and the heroine gets her man. 'It's about people trying to make meaning in their lives because there isn't any inherent meaning.' He pauses. 'That means-'

'I know what inherent means.'

There's a flash of self-reproach across his features. 'Sorry.'

She smiles a little and shrugs. 'It's okay.' She gazes out across the roll of grass that stretches to the mountains and the blue peaks, smoky in the sunshine. 'I don't think I've made much meaning in my life.' When she looks back again he's looking at her with a longing that runs so strong and so deep it seems to startle him. It recedes and somehow he creates more space between them, goes back to his book.

If he looks at her a way she doesn't like, he's out. He's never looked at her like that before, not quite like that.

'I'll make some coffee,' she says, unfolds herself from her chair. There's a tremor in the fingers resting on the page she doesn't think he's reading.