The morning was a stormy one, but in a quiet way. Greg sipped his coffee and stared out at the rain. The glad fragrance of breakfast drifted in from Bramble's kitchen, an anticipatory delight. He was even looking forward to the grits, something he'd never thought would happen. She wasn't a world-class chef, but then he didn't expect her to be, after all. It was enough that she was willing to provide food. That she happened to be a decent cook was lagniappe, as the locals liked to say.

He glanced at the guitar propped in a corner by the piano. It was nothing special—a battered Martin six-string, but he'd found it in a pawn shop and made good use of it for the last week.

("I know who pawned it," Bramble said after she found him on the back porch, playing whatever came into his head. "When you get yourself something better I'll buy it from you and give it back to the original owner, if you're okay with that."

"Fine by me." He was amused at her altruism. "You're paying full price."

She offered him that hesitant smile he liked. "I'd expect nothing less.")

He could hear the kitchen radio playing Mavis Staples, accompanied by the sound of Bramble's voice as she sang along.

Well I once had a life, or rather

life had me

I was one among the many

or at least I seemed to be

well I read an old quotation in a book just yesterday

said 'you gonna reap just what you sow

the debts you make you'll have to pay'

Can you get to that?

He sat there, mug in hand, and listened as Beth sang harmony in that effortless way he secretly envied.

When you base your life on credit

and your loving days are done

checks you signed with a 'love and kisses'

later come back signed 'insufficient funds'

now can you get to that y'all

After she'd come in with a tray and settled them both with plates of food, he said "I need to go back to New Jersey."

Bramble glanced at him. She wasn't surprised; so she'd been thinking about this too. "What would that mean for you?"

"Don't know." That was the truth, though he had some hypotheses about what awaited him. "A hearing or trial for sure. Jail time, that's possible."

"Prison? For what? Faking your own death?"

He ate some grits before he answered her. "Among other things."

Now she was definitely upset, but he could detect no anger against him personally. That came as a surprise, though it shouldn't have; she had a remarkable clarity of mind when it came to the parsing of cause and effect.

"How can I help?"

He shook his head. "You can't."

"I'm not a lawyer, but I do know a few." The wry tone in her reply reminded him she'd shared a bed with one. "I can make a couple of calls, if you need me to."

He opened his mouth to issue a scathing retort, hesitated. She'd left it up to him—no ultimatums or pronouncements. It was so typical of her he had to bite back his original answer, much against his will. "There's someone who might help. She still thinks I'm dead though."

Bramble nodded. Then she reached out, took his hand in hers. They sat there for a moment.

"Can we at least have sex when I come back? As incentive," he said finally. Bramble turned to look at him. She's blushing, he thought with some amusement, and then she never expected me to ask. The realization held an odd sadness, along with another insight, one he'd known for some time: she doesn't think she's attractive. She never did. True, she was no raving beauty, but she'd made the most of what she had. It looked good on her. He couldn't say the same, he knew that every time he was forced to look in the mirror. She'd aged far more gracefully than he had . . . He came out of his thoughts to find her watching him, her gaze steady.

"We could arrange that. Or even before you leave, if you like." Her tone held both uncertainty and mild amusement. After a moment he nodded, unwilling to put his agreement into words. Her clasp tightened gently.

After breakfast was finished and the dishes stacked in the sink, Bramble led him to her bedroom. At the door he hesitated. "I don't need someone who sees any good in me. I need someone . . . someone who sees the bad and wants me anyway—" He stopped when she put a finger to his lips.

"You talk too much."

He took a seat at his side of the bed while she turned on a lamp. With some hesitation she removed her clothes and folded them before she placed them in a chair by the dresser. He found her matter-of-fact attitude charming, even attractive, but then she'd always been down-to-earth in her dealings with him. There was no reason why sex should be any different.

When she turned around he studied her. After a moment she folded her arms and tilted her head a little. "Well, did I pass inspection?" He savored the tart tone in her words. "You might consider reciprocating."

With reluctance he stood, peeled off his tee shirt, hesitated. Then he pushed down his jeans and waited. Bramble looked at his leg and the hideous scar he'd made even worse with his own attempt at surgery. Her expression changed—not to disgust as he'd expected, but pain, and a deep sadness. When he saw tears in her eyes, he couldn't help but growl at her. "Cut it out!"

She looked down, said nothing. He ditched his jeans and limped over to stop in front of her. "If you're just gonna cry, this won't work." He reached out, hesitated, put a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to—"

And then she embraced him, her face buried in the join of his neck and shoulder. Slowly he brought his arms up, astonished at the feel of her body against his—something he'd thought about now and then over the years, usually in the small hours when his brain scourged him with what-ifs over his many mistakes. She was warm and soft, her skin like silk . . .

The next thing he knew he was on the bed with her, being kissed. It was a scorcher, delivered with so much passion he thought the sheets might catch fire. After a moment he gave in and returned it—what the hell, why not. When she came up for air he held her face in his hands. "Holy shit. Who knew, wild child?"

She choked on a laugh, then kissed him again. She was damn good at it, and he knew a moment of regret that he hadn't spent time with her in school exploring her technique. Another part of his mind wondered if the asshole lawyer had taught her, but he doubted it—this was natural ability, and plenty of it. While the rational side contemplated this question, the rest of him was intensely aware of her breasts against his chest, her hands, warm and callused, her smile when he settled her atop him.

"Protection," he managed to say. Beth shook her head.

"It's okay. Tell you later." She gasped softly as he eased into her, her eyes wide. In that moment he remembered her on a cold late-winter night, looking up at him with a trust and love he'd never earned. Now he saw a lifetime of experience behind the same feelings. The realization troubled him in a way he hadn't anticipated. He'd warned her, after all. But he was still human enough to accept what she wanted to offer, and enjoy the experience.

Afterward they lay together and listened to the rain fall. "This complicates things a bit," he dared to say. Beth stirred a little.

"Yes" She rubbed his arm gently. "It could be that I like things complicated."

"You'll regret saying that."

"We'll see." She dropped a kiss on his cheek. "If you come back, anyway."

"If . . . if I can, I will."

She sighed softly and rested her head against his shoulder. "Okay."

"I didn't need a rubber," he reminded her after a long, contented silence. She stretched a bit.

"I had a partial hysterectomy some years ago. My gynecologist found pre-cancerous cells in my Pap smear. Everything's fine, I go in once a year to make sure."

He trailed his fingers over her arm, delighting in the simple joy of having her close. "I want to check your records."

She gave him a little caress. "Thanks."

Dinner that evening was almost silent. There was no need to talk on either side; it was enough to be together. When they'd finished Beth gave him a kiss, then left him alone in the living room. Admirably discreet, he thought, and drew in a deep breath. Time to get things started.

He made the call to Stacy and endured the entire revelatory process without too much protest. It was in a good cause, after all. The sooner he returned to New Orleans, the better off he'd be.

When the discussion was over and travel plans had been made, he went out to the kitchen where Beth waited for him. In silence she offered him a beer, which he accepted with gratitude. "She'll take me on," he said after a time. "Sounds like I'll be in New Jersey for a while, for the legal stuff. After that, depending on the outcome . . . we'll see." He took a long swallow.

"When do you leave?" Beth's voice was quiet.

"Tomorrow morning. Stacy got me an early flight." He didn't need to mention she'd be waiting with a police escort.

"Okay. I'll take you to the airport."

"You don't—" He stopped when she clasped his hand. He'd begun to like the way she claimed him, her small, workworn fingers gentle.

"I know."

He didn't bother going to his side of the house that night. Instead he took some comfort in the feel of her body close to his. He fell asleep to the sound of her quiet breathing.

He woke early, to find Beth up before him. She made coffee and toast for both of them while he put clean clothes in his backpack, along with his wallet and phone.

The ride to the airport was silent. Greg listened to the radio and tried not to think of what lay ahead. Beth didn't speak, but her presence was enough. He focused on having her close; it was the last time they'd be side by side for a while, maybe for good.

She had to leave him when they reached the security gate. He leaned on his cane and stared down at her. "Thanks for the ride."

"You're welcome." She reached up, touched his cheek, just as she had done so many years ago. "Call me when you get there, if you can."

He nodded, unable to say anything more. She gave him a caress, stepped back. He turned and limped away. When he reached the line for the security search he looked back. She was there—a still figure in a continual mass of activity, her gaze fixed on him.

It was much later when he was settled in his seat that he took out his phone to check for messages and found one from her. It was a link to a Spotify playlist. He put in his earbuds and opened the list, intrigued. When Hall and Oates began to sing he had to smile. He closed his eyes and let the music take him to another place and time—not an idyllic one, but it had its moments. He hoped to create more moments like them soon, after he'd paid off his debts once and for all.

'Can You Get To That,' Mavis Staples

'Your Kiss Is On My List,' Hall & Oates