or Otis’s. The boy had the strong looks of his mother,
but his eyes could have been either man’s and his
ways were strange because he’d been born a bit daft.
So there was no clear indication one way or the other
who his daddy was.
Otis had thought and thought about the situation
and had come most recently to conclude either he had
to leave his wife, or try one more time to mend their
differences. After all, he told himself, I’m almost fifty.
So when he saw the weather break clean and clear the
day after the snow and rain, he had a sudden thought
and made some sandwiches and had taken from a
shelf a bottle of blackberry wine and put everything
into a nice little basket.
“I thought maybe we could start things off with a
picnic,” he said, when his wife asked him why it was
he wanted her to accompany him to Cooper’s Creek
that morning.
“Picnic?” she said. “What’s so saucy about a pic-
nic; and, my lord, it’s nearly winter!”
“I was thinking a picnic might be a good way to
get things started. It’s such a pretty day,” he said.
“We’re not likely to get many more before next
spring.”
“What about the store?” she said.
“I’ve asked Gus Boone to watch it.”
“He’ll steal us blind . . .”
“No, he won’t steal us blind. Will you come with
me on a picnic, Martha?”
She could see the look of desperate determination
in his eyes, could hear it in his voice. She knew she’d
been hard on him all these years, her bitterness fueled
by jealousy, even though she was sure that Otis loved
Karen Sunflower, she didn’t suspect he and Karen
were fooling around with each other, that it was just
that one time if at all.
“I suppose,” she said. She saw the smile on his face.
It’s a start, maybe, she thought, and went and got her
wool capote, then decided she might spray just a tiny
bit of perfume behind her ears. What foolishness, she
thought, watching herself pin a hat atop her head.
They rode leisurely out to Cooper’s Creek in a
rented hansom, Otis humming happily, the sun warm
on their faces.
Once arrived, Otis pulled into a grove of young
cottonwoods that bordered the bank of the creek and
said, “This looks like a good place” and immediately
she wondered if he’d ever met Karen Sunflower here
and if that was why he wanted to come here, then just
as quickly pushed the thought away. Best to give him
the benefit of the doubt if we are ever going to get past
this thing.
Otis took a blanket and the basket of food and
wine out of the cab and spread the blanket atop the
still somewhat damp grass from the previous night’s
storm. But the blanket was a thick wool and would
keep them dry. They reclined on the blanket and ate
the sandwiches and sipped the wine.
“Isn’t it pleasant, Martha?”
She had to agree that it was.
“When we were young . . .” he said wistfully. “Do
you remember when we were young and how some-
thing like this thrilled us so?”
Off in the grasses cedar waxwings and yellow war-
blers and black-capped chickadees sang to each other,
fooled no doubt by the changeable weather, but seem-
ingly oblivious. A horned lark swooped down and
pecked at a bit of the sandwich Martha had set aside
on a piece of butcher’s paper.
“It’s like we’re Adam and Eve and this is the Gar-
den of Eden,” Otis said, feeling buoyant now that the
wine had gone to his head. He reached out and
touched Martha’s hand and she did not withdraw it.
“It’s been so long,” he said, and she felt a great
compassion for him, if not the first fires of a new pas-
sion outright.
“Well, you know . . .” she said. “We’re not youth-
ful anymore, Otis.”
“But it don’t mean we can’t . . .”
“Oh, Otis,” she said blushing. “You do have a way
of embarrassing me.”
“But Martha, there is no one here for you to be
embarrassed in front of. It’s just you and me . . .” and
he began to unbutton her dress. At first she tried
pushing his hands away, but then he kissed her as pas-
sionately as he ever had and it caused her to swoon
and fall back upon the blanket and he fell with her.
She stared up at the flawless gas-blue sky as Otis
worked the rest of the buttons on her dress. Perhaps,
she thought. Perhaps . . .
Afterward, they dressed slowly, and Otis said, “I
feel drowsy, Martha. I feel complete and whole again
and drowsy.”
“It’s just the wine,” she said lying next to him.
“No, it’s a lot more than just the wine. It’s pure
happiness, is what it is.”
“Oh, pshaw,” she said, but secretly she felt as
though they had crossed a bridge that had been keep-
