A/N: Hello! I am posting this extra-long chapter (one of my very favorites!) so that I can also let anyone who's following know that ivy will be on hiatus until I've finished writing the whole thing. I'm still actively working on it and probably have about 2/3 of the remainder written, but my posts are catching up to what I've written and I keep reconsidering the flow and adding things, plus I think Part II will just read better if it goes up all at once.
Two more notes for this chapter: 1) Men's drinking being tied to their wives' bad cooking was something I came across in a satire by Marion Harland, so credit to her for that!, and 2) this is by far my most self-indulgent chapter, but I will not apologize for my body's responses to a casually clothed Henry. Hope you enjoy it!
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Chapter 18 – March 1910 – Not an acceptable risk
"It is my honor, and my pleasure, on behalf of the Pacific Northwest Mining Company, to welcome you all to the annual Miner's Games!"
A round of cheers sprung up from the gathered crowd. Men and boys rubbed their hands together, ready to spring into action, while families applauded on the sidelines, calling out the names of their husbands and sons.
"In just a minute, we'll get some of the young men out here for the egg toss. After that, we're set up for baseball over by the church. And if those aren't your games, we've got darts, horseshoes, and some good old-fashioned arm wrestling."
"Don't forget that red velvet cake now, Gowen!"
"Beat me to it there, Mr. Dunbar!" Henry grinned. "Before we wrap it up with a game of tug of war, the fine women of this town will be auctioning off their baking for you undeserving gentlemen!" The jape was met with whoops and mocking boos. "All funds go to the, uh… to the bank, is that right, Jenkins?" More boos rang out as the bank manager waved his hands over his head with a laugh. "Oh, alright, all funds to the church then," Henry conceded.
Spirits had already been high, but Henry was a natural in front of a crowd. Abigail sometimes couldn't believe this was the same man who shuffled his feet when he took his leave from her, and buried all of his troubles behind those dark eyes. Every contrast was highlighted to her now, every shift in his demeanor cause for examination. She tried to fight it, but her attention was drawn back over and over again.
"Let's get to it then, shall we, gentlemen? Let the games begin!" Henry shouted.
Abigail let out a whoop and applause along with the others, smiling as she followed Henry's movements down into the street. He shook hands with the miners that had crowded up near him, performative bursts of laughter overtaking the sound of hearty slaps on backs. Beside her, Noah spat at the ground, making no move to join them.
"Noah? Is everything okay?"
"Sure."
"Aren't you excited for the games?" she asked, worried.
"You bet," he said, but his expression never changed. He called Peter over and the two of them strode away to watch the egg toss, leaving her behind in bewilderment.
ooo
They blended in, cheering on Joe and Miles as though nothing were wrong, but Abigail's senses had already been set on edge. A couple of times, she tried to lay a questioning hand on her husband's shoulder to get him to speak to her, but each time he would pull away. Not quickly, not with an obvious anger, but in gradual separations – enough to discourage her from prying any more directly while out in public. She let him disperse with the other men across the games, hoping space would help whatever was upsetting him. They had gotten past her outburst at the church service, or at least she thought that they had, but maybe it was bothering him again now that they were back in a crowd.
The women, meanwhile, congregated on the bank steps, trading compliments about their children's skills in the games and gossiping about this or that. Abigail, still chastened from the whole experience, listened with a pleasant smile, replacing it as it faltered and speaking when spoken to. Apparently she had not camouflaged her distraction very well because Cat's hand soon fell softly onto her own shoulder, breaking her from a private reverie.
"Hey. You okay?"
"Hm? Oh yes, I'm fine."
Cat's eyes panned across the street to where Abigail's absent-minded gaze had been fixed.
"Something going on with Gowen?"
"Gowen? No. What do you mean?" she responded quickly.
But Cat only looked at her again.
"Oh no - my thoughts just drifted, that's all. Goodness, I hope it didn't seem as though I was staring at Henry Gowen!" Abigail put a hand to her chest, protesting just slightly too much.
The both of them turned their attention out again, now provided with an excuse to intentionally study the man in question. While the main attractions for their husbands were drinks and darts (which Abigail had quickly decided she would go nowhere near, especially after seeing the darkness of Noah's mood that afternoon), the draw for the children at the moment was Henry's car. Despite having no children of his own, Henry was demonstrating a surprising patience as he allowed several of the boys and girls to climb across the seats and pretend they were driving. The new boy, Robert Wolf, even managed to sneak in a blast of the horn before Henry had to tell him his time was up.
"How's everything been with the boys?" Cat asked. "The boys," for Cat, always included Joe, so Abigail knew her friend was really asking about Noah.
"It changes from minute to minute," Abigail answered honestly. "I used to be good at understanding people, and now I think I haven't got a clue what any of them are really thinking."
"I don't know why people think women are the mysterious sex," Cat squinted. "And how is it that we can be considered both mysterious and emotional at the same time?"
Abigail smiled. "I'm not sure that's too far off the mark recently. I keep getting upset with everyone and I don't even know why. I mean, somewhat I suppose I do, but it's not what I want to be doing."
"What do you want to be doing?"
A light breeze picked up the loose tendrils of her hair as she contemplated the question. Across the way, Henry turned his head, as though he'd felt their eyes on him. Hints of discomfort tightened his face, but he nodded at them in acknowledgment. Cat gave him a friendly wave in return, Abigail a more tentative one. He watched them for one more beat, until little Anna called his name from the ground. Like a mask pulled from his pocket, his expression changed abruptly to a broad smile, and he indulged himself fully in the distraction, lifting Anna high into the air as she laughed.
Cat crossed her arms over her knees. "Well?" she prompted gently.
Abigail sighed softly. "I wish I could tell you."
ooo
Henry left soon after, a couple of the children still pleading with him to keep the car out for a few more minutes. The last two mine directors had also driven cars, but some of the children were too young to remember, and what the older children remembered was that the only time anyone could put their hands on Mr. Chambers' car was if he'd given them a five-cent piece to wash it.
His departure reminded the women that it was time for their own return to the rowhomes to finish off their cooled pies and cakes. Abigail threw herself back into the chatter, finding it impossible not to laugh when they passed some of the more inebriated men shouting and showing off their arm-wrestling prowess. Up ahead of her, she could hear Florence tutting at Molly in an ungracious whisper, stating that it was certainly Martha Green's poor cooking skills that drove her husband to drink.
Whether Florence's command of homemaking contributed to Paul's temperance, Abigail couldn't say, but the honest truth was that Florence's baking was actually amazing. When Abigail emerged with her own contribution a half-hour later, she was not surprised to find that a circle of praise had already formed around the famous red velvet cake.
"Well, my goodness, Florence, you have outdone yourself again!" Abigail joined in with a theatrical gasp. This year's version was topped with a smooth layer of white icing and impossibly perfect fondant flowers, but the cake itself would be same rich, sweet creation as always, baked for just the right amount of time. The recipe was the best-kept secret in Coal Valley, since it was the one thing Florence wouldn't tell.
The women set up in the back of the saloon, where Katie Yost had already written out place cards and arranged them on a long table. Tom served a few of the men that were still in there playing games, and brought out milk and water for the ladies. Tom always had milk on hand for the auction, but only the women were served a glass for free.
Cat, as she had for the last few years, would play host and auctioneer. The ostensible reason for this was that she was nearly as gifted at inspiring a crowd as Henry. The actual reason was that Cat absolutely hated baking. Abigail, on the other hand, found it to be one of the pleasures of domestic life. It was both science and art: everything laid out and measured, consuming you with an exacting attention, and yet somehow what came out at the end was light and fanciful and all your own.
The clanging of a cowbell out the saloon doors signaled that they were ready to begin. Cat shook the metal instrument wildly, ushering the men inside. Abigail had seen Peter and Noah out in the street playing horseshoes when she and the others had walked back to town, and they were two of the first to make their way through the doors. Peter waved to her quickly before running over to Tom for a water, and Noah continued up to the table.
"Should've made a second one," he noted with a smile. Whatever was wrong before had nothing to do with her, then. Or maybe it had and he was trying to shrug it off.
"Sorry, looks like you'll have to bid on this one," she played along.
"I intend to."
"Thank you, that's sweet," she said. "Are you feeling any better?" She asked the question casually, like it was a minor concern, though part of her was holding her breath in anticipation of further withdrawal.
"Nothing wrong, like I said. Just some issues at work. We can talk about it another time." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, but the answer was hardly reassuring. Over his shoulder, she could see Henry beyond the doorway, his walk wide as he climbed the saloon steps. While Noah pulled back and went to stand with Peter near the bar to her right, Henry glanced around quickly and joined a table to her left, where the men already seated there lifted their glasses to him.
The bidding began a few minutes later. The amounts were typical – 50 or 60 cents, or 75 if competition got really intense. Pudding pies and carrot cakes were accepted with ravenous eyes that the single miners usually reserved for more titillating sights, while Paul Blakeley, having given up sweets for Lent, sat suffering in the corner and thinking himself a martyr. Henry made some early bids, as did Noah and Peter, but none of the three engaged in any prolonged bidding wars. After Franklin Palmer walked off with Marta's black-and-white cake, Abigail's turn arrived.
"Our next dessert is from Mrs. Abigail Stanton, bringing us a prairie favorite – a delicious-looking custard meringue pie." Cat waited while Abigail lifted the cover of the dish with a flourish and presented her work. "We'll start the bidding at 25 cents."
"25," Noah called out. Abigail saw a drunk Joe whisper something in his ear with a sly grin. She could guess the gist of the comment when it was swiftly met with a backhand to Joe's chest.
"30," raised Wendell.
"40."
"45!"
"Hey, why don't you get your own wife, Backus?" Noah teased.
"It ain't for lack of trying!" Wendell answered, sparking a round of guffaws and slaps.
"Wait, wait," Cat raised her hands to calm the crowd. "Ned, is that a bid?"
Abigail looked over to where Ned stood in the corner with his arm half-raised, his eyes darting nervously from all the attention now turned to him. "Um… yes. That is, um… I bid one, uh, one dollar."
A few murmurs rose up, the quick increase in the bid piquing the audience's interest, not to mention Abigail's. She scanned the room, seeing that Noah and a couple of other men were counting their coins. Henry was playing with his hat on the table surface, squinting with only a mild attention. But for Abigail, who could read the movements of his face like a page of Gospel, the clench of his muscles betrayed him.
"Well, okay, we have one dollar!" Cat announced excitedly. "Do I hear one-ten?"
"$1.10." A kind offer from Silas Ramsey. "For the church."
"$1.25," Ned pushed in again. Noah looked over at him. "For the church," Ned echoed timidly.
"One dollar and twenty-five cents!" Cat shouted. "Any other takers?"
Abigail looked at Henry, who remained in the same indifferent position, then over to her husband. He had cocked his head toward Peter, who was shrugging beside him in concession.
Turning back to meet Cat's expectant look, Noah gave a short wave. "We're good here. Enjoy it, Ned!" he said with a good-natured nod to the other man.
"And sold! To Ned Yost for one dollar and twenty-five cents!"
There was an astonished applause as Abigail covered the pie and carried it out, Ned coming forward to meet her and Cat on the periphery of the crowded saloon space. With everyone watching and the temporary noise of the clapping fading out, it would have been uncomfortable to ask him about the bid. And if what she suspected was true, then her mouth was definitely best kept shut. She therefore buttoned up her curiosity with a pleasant smile, and returned to her place behind the diminishing row of desserts with only a "thank you".
Before the auction was through, Henry had purchased Laurel Miller's butter tarts for one dollar-fifty, a turn of events that vexed both Abigail and Florence, whose red velvet cake sold for 95 cents.
ooo
"Let's go, blue!"
Abigail joined the chorus of boos that erupted around her, laughing as she finished tying up the red strip to Peter's arm.
"What was that? Blue?"
"BOOOOOO!" their side shouted back.
Abigail used her son's shoulder to boost herself up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck, sweetheart." Leaning forward, she dropped a peck on Noah's cheek where he stood in front. "Good luck." The men called their thanks as she ran over to the sidelines, grabbing Cat's hand in nervous anticipation. Tug of War was Noah's favorite, and he did not like to lose.
"Alright, count 'em up. One, two, three…"
"You've got too many!"
"Get yourselves one more then!"
"Where'd Crocker get off to?"
"I think you mean what'd Crocker get into," Patrick said, pointing to where their fallen brother was slouched over a barrel.
"We'll allow it!" Noah shouted from the other side.
"Hey, Gowen, how about you?"
"Oh, no, I don't want to root against any of these good men now," Henry said – a diplomatic response that was immediately met with more boos from both sides of the rope.
Relenting in the face of this mockery, Henry shed his coats and vest, laying them down on the mercantile steps and rolling up his sleeves. It suddenly became obvious to anyone looking – and Abigail certainly was – that Henry Gowen's fine clothing had been hiding an unexpectedly powerful figure. She choked down an involuntary intake of breath, certain that the heat that flooded her chest was about to burn a hole through her dress. When Henry strode toward the line of miners, Abigail couldn't help herself feeling envious of Molly, given the privilege of circling Henry's firm upper arm with a blue ribbon.
"Up in front, Mr. Gowen," one of the men shouted.
While not hoping to lose, the blue team was clearly giddy with the thought of seeing their high society boss caked in mud if they did. Henry must have known this, but was nevertheless a good sport, taking his place near the red ribbon that would signal his defeat if pulled over the neutral middle. The sinful thoughts Abigail had been fighting were quickly doused by the chilling realization that Henry and her very competitive husband were now standing face to face across an ominous pool of mud.
"Who's gonna call it?"
"… Hey, Hickam!"
A group of miners echoed the name and waved until Mike Hickam trotted over like a deer in headlights, having emerged from some corner of the crowd. After a moment of instruction, Mike stood and faced the gathered families, the rope acting as barrier between them and him.
"Alright, fellas, are we ready?" Mike looked to Henry, who nodded, and then to Noah, who did the same. "Well, ok then. Ready… and… go!"
As soon as Mike's hand sliced through the air, the shouting and pulling began. "Let's go! Let's go, red!" Abigail called out, clapping and watching warily. The men's faces contorted with their efforts, tightening and releasing as they caught their balance in sliding boots. The action flashed in colors: Henry's blue armband, Noah's forehead straining to purple, the oscillating red ribbon in front of Henry's white knuckles. Voices screeched around her, shouting for their teams. Hers continued with them, automatic, disembodied.
"Take 'em down, take 'em down!" the men in the red line urged behind her husband. The blue team grunted and stomped, their heels digging grooves in the dirt. Sturdy as Henry had turned out to be, Noah's large burly frame held the apparent advantage. It was obvious in the way Henry's feet took longer each time to recover that he was quickly losing ground, all of his effort going into fending off the inevitable fall. Noah knew it too, his icy determination fixed on Henry. The rope stretched between them, impossibly taut. The red ribbon inched excruciatingly closer to the mud puddle, regaining only a fraction of its position with every pull. Strands sprung from the sides of the rope and Noah's body stretched further and further back, his boots turning sideways. Finally, when the roars had reached their height and both teams seemed ready to topple backwards from the strain, the scarlet knot crossed over the enemy line, its territory surrendered.
But the men still held the rope. And in the split second before Mike made the call – when Henry had just begun to loosen his stance – Noah yanked it backward.
Henry went down without warning, sliding on his back into the waiting slop. Abigail lurched forward, a gasp on her lips, the start of his name. She felt more than saw her son's eyes shoot up in her direction, holding her in place.
Others were already there, coal-etched hands lifting him from the mud, swiping clumsily at the formerly white dress shirt. The crowd waited for the reaction, their own wavering between concerned murmurs and uncertain, nervous laughter. All part of the fun, wasn't it? Just a bit of rough-housing? That was the game, after all.
Henry slapped at the side of his pants, scattering droplets of the mud into the air. He looked up at Noah. After a tense moment that felt much longer than it was, his left eyebrow cocked up in amusement.
"Couldn't resist, eh, Stanton?"
The miners broke into relieved laughter. Joe patted Henry on the back, rewarding the good spirit of the reply. Noah smiled a wry satisfied smile – one that would look to anyone else like a ribbing smirk – but Abigail knew her husband better than that.
Henry's steps were cool and confident as he approached, offering up a dirty hand. "Good show."
The smirk didn't leave Noah's face as he crushed his hand to Henry's with a rough smack.
"Always."
If Henry had any reaction to this, he kept it to himself. Instead he took his place as amiable leader once more – small-town charm with a city grin. "Well, I reckon it's about time to cap this off at the saloon. What do you say, fellas?"
A round of whoops went up, the line of sweaty men back-slapping and laughing their way back toward Tom's bar. Peter would go too, a glass slid over to him with a wink. She didn't know if he would take it. Henry didn't follow the charge he'd led, instead walking uncomfortably back toward the mercantile, where Ned had produced a damp towel at some point in the last minute. Henry dabbed and rubbed at his skin while Ned spoke in a close and anxious tone, until both men disappeared into the general store.
A tall figure skidded next to her and she turned to find her son. His height could still frequently catch her off-guard.
"Oh, honey, well done!" She laid a genuinely proud hand on his arm, her pride having nothing to do with the games. Just seeing him tower over her, flushed with effort, could fill her with love despite anything else she was feeling.
"Thanks," he said. "Don't worry about all that with Gowen," he said, reading her mind… or following her gaze, she wasn't sure which.
"Oh, yes, well… I suppose that's just the game. And you know your father," she said cheerily, trying to dismiss any appearance of concern. She felt the need to convince Peter, too, that it had been nothing out of the ordinary.
"Yeah," he agreed, but said no more on the subject. "Are you coming in with us?" he tilted his chin toward the saloon.
"No, I'm going to enjoy the weather for a bit longer and head home. You two celebrate."
"Ok, we'll see you later."
"Alright, love," she smiled, giving him a pat on the back as he ran off.
In the quiet that came over the street, the weight of the day began to gradually descend. She wasn't sure she wanted to spend more time around Noah, given his mood all through the Games. Her choices in the saloon would either be to sit and watch as her husband pretended he was having a grand old time, or to bite her tongue in defending Henry against him; neither sounded especially appealing. Regardless, the subject of Henry would inevitably come up again at the saloon, and she had already let herself come too close to overtly brooding once today. She exchanged pleasantries with the few other women who had stayed behind, but they too seemed enamored by the very subject she wanted to avoid ("He only bought one dessert at the auction for the church, and he easily could have afforded them all." "What is a single man going to do with eleven pies, Carla?"), and so she declined their invitations for the walk home as well.
Strolling back around the shops, she found a place to settle, on one of the benches near the mercantile. She leaned her head back, breathing in the evening air, and tried to convince herself that she was not waiting to see him. That she was not waiting to see what would happen, and which Henry and Abigail they would be today. Would he walk out and give her that easy grin and make a joke about having to repair his trousers this time? Would he rush past her with a hoarse greeting and a tip of his hat, leaving her cold? Or worst of all, would she get the public's Mr. Henry Gowen, Pacific Northwest Mining Company?
She scoffed then, chiding herself for how weak she was being. Waiting for him would just be letting him define what they were. Waiting for him meant admitting that she was not in control of herself. If things were ever going to be normal, if she was ever going to get past this, then she couldn't be sitting around waiting for him to give her permission to keep existing.
The bell chimed as she entered the mercantile, careful to check the floor for obstacles. She found both an empty floor and an empty counter. "Hello?" she called out, walking further toward the back area where Henry was likely to have been brought to clean up. Indeed, a peek around the doorway revealed him there, hastily setting down a plate that had moments before contained a piece of her pie. A scattered pile of coins lay next to the larger dish that held the remaining dessert, and she knew without coming any closer that it would equal one dollar and twenty-five cents.
Henry took advantage of the time he needed to swallow the last bite, then shrugged at the question she hadn't asked. "Ned couldn't eat the whole thing himself."
His weary voice underscored his complexion, pale and bleak. She tilted her head in concern. "Are you okay?"
He had cleaned his mouth with a linen napkin which he now crushed fiercely between his hands. "Just a little dirt, Abigail, I'm not that delicate."
"I know, but – "
He cut her off with a look. She was glad of it. She had no defense for her husband, and this would have been a wicked moment to speak against him.
"Where's Ned?" she asked more gently.
"Outside, putting everything in the wash. He and Katie were kind enough to offer so I didn't have to carry them home that way."
"And lent a change of clothes too, I see," she motioned to his clean wardrobe, dark trousers and white work shirt half a size too small for him. "I did tell you when we met that this was a good town," she smiled.
He didn't respond, keeping the distance between them unbreached. Abigail would not be dissuaded, still feeling compelled to force things between them back to some place that would make her feel whole again.
"I'm sure you'll have heard how interested so many people here are in the pastor search," she prompted.
"That's one way to put it."
"They just want to know the Company will hire someone they can respect and feel comfortable seeking guidance from. Someone who embodies their faith."
"And how could they trust a callous city mining executive whose only faith is money," he finished sarcastically.
She shook her head. "They just don't know you like I do."
His eyes snapped up to hers, an involuntarily yearning hiding in the shadow of his surprise. It was as though the very idea that anyone could really know him, or would even want to know him, had never occurred to him at all. The intimacy of it was so raw, it scorched her skin and made her squirm.
Henry turned away too. She followed his stare through the back window, out to where the Yosts were talking and hanging the freshly scrubbed clothes. Henry watched them for a long moment, sucking at his teeth in the way he did when he was mulling something over.
"Are you walking home alone?" he asked abruptly.
Anticipation swiftly contracted her chest. "I'd be happy not to."
"There's something I've been meaning to talk with you about, if you don't mind."
"Not at all."
She waited wordlessly while he gathered his things to escort her, afraid to disrupt this tentative progress. The trance kept its grip on her until they had walked across the empty main street and out to the far path, when he finally spoke again.
"That letter in my pocket… I reckon you saw it."
"Oh," the vise on her breath loosened. "Henry, you don't have to explain your personal correspondence to me – "
"No, I want to," he cut in, stopping her protests again.
She nodded her acquiescence and he continued, drawing in a sharp breath.
"I want to," he said again. "I just don't like a lot of people knowing my business. The more people know about you, the more…"
The more vulnerable you are. He recognized the unspoken understanding that flashed in her face, and was grateful not to have to finish the sentence.
"It shouldn't matter," he continued, "but it does. It matters here."
Henry slipped away from her into some other thought, some vision across the trees that she couldn't see. Gently, she prompted, "What matters, Henry?"
Henry sighed deeply, his face hardening into a frown.
"Jane… is my ex-wife."
His ex-wife. The confession caught her completely off guard. It was the answer she'd wanted since the day they met, and yet it gave her no closure at all now. She wanted to know so much more. Though she hardly trusted herself to speak, she knew that Henry needed this candidness to be acknowledged, and to be received with a dispassionate kind of compassion.
"I see," she said simply.
"I don't want to get into all of it or be indelicate," he continued, dismissing any emotion before it could affect him. "Obviously it didn't work out. I have a lot of regrets there, and other things I carry with me… it makes the personal aspect of things more complicated. Everything here does."
Even as he was trying to open up to her, the cracks were still so thin and cautious that she couldn't be sure what he was trying to say. Was he still in love with Jane? Did he want Abigail's help in pursuing someone new? Questions swirled together until it was impossible to separate curiosity from jealousy. What kind of husband had Henry Gowen been? What kind of woman had he loved? What was it about Coal Valley that made the weight of the past so much heavier?
The lines in his face had deepened to a painful degree. He seemed to chew on words in his head, grinding his teeth down onto a disappointment he could not tear apart. The war he fought against his own vulnerability was achingly evident, and her hand twitched at her side, threatening to rebel against her better senses and pull him to her.
He pivoted suddenly to face her. "Abigail, I … "
The effect was instantaneous – a storm descending on a river that was always running inside of her. Desire clouded her view and nearly made her dizzy. But she could see the sharp sadness in those hazel eyes, caging the rest of him inside. She could see the edge of his teeth underneath his parted lips, refusing the sounds that would reach them. She could see the stubbled gray patches at his jaw where she could so easily have laid her hand. She understood for the first time, with a frightening clarity, that if he had kissed her – even right now, standing outside her family's home – she would not have stopped him.
But he didn't kiss her.
Clearing the rasp from his voice, he stepped away. "Well, I just wanted you to know that," he finished.
His embrace in the mercantile last week had been only a fleeting touch, too ephemeral to even register its warmth around her waist and hold it in her memory. But the absence of it now… that she could describe in a hundred ways.
"Thank you, Henry. For sharing that with me."
"You won't, uh…"
"I won't tell anyone."
Henry nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets to close himself back up again. "I'd better get back to the celebrations," he said, both of them knowing he wouldn't. "I'll see you around, Abigail."
"Bye, Henry." It was as far above a whisper as she could manage. Another performance in the string of them that had become her life. The moment he turned from her sight she sank onto her front porch, heavy with all the steps after him that she dared not take.
And in the silence, it came to her in pieces. All their tiny kicks in the dust. How he wouldn't tell her where he had found her daisies. How he was only Henry when they were alone. How he fell naturally in beside her even when his words pushed her away. How he didn't let her say Noah's name.
Realizations that could not form themselves in his presence became an avalanche now, burying the steadfast denials that had up to this point been her faith. The tears fell before she knew they were there, bleeding through the hand that covered her mouth and leaving their tracks on her wedding band.
Didn't he know what it would feel like? How it would make her hope?
What was she supposed to do now? Now that she had hope?
