Cassidy took a deep breath, then let the shoes drop into the box.
“You got rid of the pots and pans?” Quinn asked some time later, his tone incredulous. They had dealt with his knickknacks, ski gear, and the clothes from his closet—things that were easy to part with because he rarely wore the dress shirts, ties, and slacks. Plus they weren’t a part of the Pete she knew, who preferred jeans and T-shirts and fleece, or soccer warm-up pants. When they began sorting the books, she broke down, and Quinn sat and held her for a long time. Pete had loved books and learning so much. Parting with his collection of the nonfiction he devoured and so eagerly shared with her felt like a betrayal. Shouldn’t she reread these favorites as a tribute? But the thought had overwhelmed her, and the tears and anger poured out. She hadn’t planned to drink, but Quinn cracked a beer for her, and she didn’t have the strength to resist.
She sighed. “Every time I look at that orange one, I picture him cooking his spaghetti sauce.”
Quinn picked up the cast iron saucepan. “These are nice, though.”
“I know.”
Quinn sighed, and turned. “I think he would want you to keep them. He loved cooking for people. Do you really want a stranger to have these?”
Cassidy hugged herself and tried to sift through her emotions.
“Your call,” Quinn said.
“Okay, maybe I’ll keep them, but not in the house, not yet.”
Quinn moved the set of three orange saucepans to a bare spot on the floor.
They went through the other kitchen items, most of which she wanted to give away. “We’re going to need to go shopping,” Quinn said. “You don’t have any utensils now. Or coffee cups.” He raised an eyebrow.
“I have a few, and I’m keeping his knives,” Cassidy said. Her shoulders slumped as she realized that Quinn was right about the shopping. But removing most of his gadgets and even the basic things like silverware and mugs felt like a significant step towards reclaiming her kitchen.
“I think a gas barbeque should be high on your list of future purchases,” Quinn said from across the garage.
“Hmm,” she said, wondering if this would help. She knew she couldn’t survive on peanut butter toast and cheese and crackers forever. “I don’t know how to use one,” she said.
“Piece of cake,” Quinn said. “We’ll get you one of those self-lighting ones. You can cook a burger or chicken in, like, minutes.”
Cassidy imagined herself in an apron, flipping a single burger.
Quinn picked up a bread pan.
“Keep that,” Cassidy cried out as a throb of pain shot through her. “Pete loved to bake bread,” she explained to Quinn’s concerned look. She wrapped her arms around herself as the memories flooded in. “I can’t give that away.”
Quinn put the bread pan down and pulled her close. “I’m sorry,” he said into her hair.
Cassidy leaned into his shoulder and let the tears fall.
The following day Quinn cooked her a perfect omelet for breakfast. Her head felt heavy though whether from all of the crying or the beer she wasn’t sure. They had managed to go through everything except moving Pete’s car. She had been too wrung out the previous night to do it, knowing that his car would be filled with powerful memories. She had kept his favorite cookbooks, several of his most beloved books, the photo from his nightstand of the two of them, his bike tools, and a few articles of his clothing besides his favorite fisherman’s sweater: his retro-style blue down vest, the broken-in Levis, a few T-shirts, and his forest green puffball coat with the patches on the shoulders.
They had pulled open a box containing files of his published stories. She reread the immigration series from Greece with tears streaming down her cheeks. There was also the story about the umbrella girls. She remembered how he’d wanted to go back to Sicily and dig deeper, but his editor hadn’t been able to swing the budget for a piece with so little corroboration, so the final product ended up as a shell of the story he wanted to write. The collection wasn’t complete, though—his illegal fish farm bust and the coal power plant story were missing. Cassidy realized there were likely other missing stories—ones she hadn’t read because she was either too focused on her own writing, or traveling when they were released. Most of his many online stories were missing. Maybe printing them out for his files hadn’t occurred to him, or he’d just never gotten around to it.
After thinking long and hard about it, the box of Pete’s work had been set aside for recycling. Was she really going to read all those old stories again? Quinn reminded her that everything was online.
“He was so talented,” she said to Quinn as they sipped their coffee. A story about a family of Syrian immigrants trying to survive in San Francisco lay next to her plate.
“He really was,” Quinn agreed.
“What’s happening with the book, by the way?” Quinn asked.
Cassidy sighed. “It comes out in April.”
“Are they doing a release party or anything like that?”
The cup shook in her hands. “I’m not sure,” she said, her voice cracking.
Quinn looked down at his coffee.
“I’m not sure what they do in . . . situations like this,” she finished with difficulty. She wiped her eyes.
Quinn exhaled a deep, blubbering breath.
Cassidy reached across the table for his hand, and their eyes met. “Shit, this sucks,” he said. “I mean, I’m miserable—I loved him, too, but you—” He broke off, grimacing, and blinked up at the ceiling.
Cassidy squeezed his hand, her eyes blurring.
Quinn wiped his eyes with his sleeve and cleared his throat. “What about this?” he asked, nodding at the black laptop on the counter nearby.
“I don’t know,” Cassidy said. “His whole life is on there.”
“Yeah,” he said. “His pictures, address book, passwords.”
“His research . . . ”
They stared at the device in silence for a moment.
“I could clean everything off of there, and you could
