“All that’s over.” His throat tightened. “Please. Don’t go. I’m here now.”
“You wouldn’t even notice if I was gone.”
He took another step back, his stomach clenching. “I would notice.”
She looked him in the eye, and years of questions and memories and trials and joys passed between them. He struggled to hold her gaze. He had nothing to offer—no reason for her to stay—but he couldn’t lose her. Not on top of everything else. Not his Hannie.
Daisy snuffled, sat on the linoleum, and looked up at her mistress, ready to follow her lead. The suitcase made no sound as Hannie set it down on the floor against the wall.
DINNER WAS QUIET. Gerrit wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t come home late and pulled something from the fridge to heat up in the microwave. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to taste something fresh from the stovetop. Even if it was just spaghetti and green beans.
He cleared his throat. “Your cooking is better fresh.”
Hannie stared. He swallowed. What had he said?
She stood to clear the dishes. “How nice of you to notice.”
It was supposed to be a compliment. He should’ve known better than to say anything out loud.
He sat frozen in his chair as he watched her work, her movements like cornstalks in July. Steady and determined. The refrigerator droned louder than a cab tractor. Daisy stood sentry in the hallway entrance, following Hannie with her eyes as his wife went back and forth.
Gerrit’s large callused hands lay idle on the table. “Should I help you?”
Hannie studied him until he squirmed. “If you’d like.”
Suspicion scratched at him like a barbwire fence. Her words made out like it was up to him, but they sounded as though she’d already decided against it.
He remained at the table. “You work tomorrow?”
She looked at him again. “Yes.”
Her voice was flat. Now what had he done? He considered asking what he was supposed to do all day at the house by himself but then studied the rigid set of Hannie’s shoulders and thought better of it.
She draped the dish towel over the edge of the sink and snapped her fingers. “Come on, Daisy. Time for bed.”
Gerrit glanced at the time. “It’s early yet.”
“Tomorrow’s Thursday.”
He stared. She stared back.
His shoulders tensed. Better get it over with. “So . . . ?”
Her nostrils flared. “So our biggest shipment comes on Thursday mornings. Every single week. At five a.m.”
“Oh.” The first milking started around four in the morning, so he’d always been out the door long before Hannie. “I forgot about that.”
She smirked. “Right.”
“Can’t anyone else unload the flowers?”
“It’s my shop, Gerrit. I’m the boss.”
“Right.”
Daisy was close on her heels as she strode from the kitchen. He strained to hear Hannie’s steady footsteps ascend the carpeted stairs, followed by Daisy’s bouncy ones.
That was that.
The house was quiet again.
He pushed against the table to lift himself from his chair, his stiff back protesting, and trudged through the living room. He stepped out onto the deck. Though it was as dark as used oil in the pan, he could still see the farm lit up at the bottom of the hill. He could make out the milking parlor and the loafing shed. And the big red barn. Even his father’s old house, which had been empty for five years now.
What was he going to do? Never in his whole life had he gone to bed not knowing what he would do the next day. The farm had always been there. The cows had always needed milking. The work had never ceased. Even as a child, he’d been out there.
His throat tightened again, just as it had at the sight of Hannie standing by the door with a suitcase. He’d told her things would be different now. Would they? With a determined grunt, he went back in the house and climbed the stairs.
Standing outside her bedroom—their bedroom—he hesitated. He had taken to sleeping on the rickety recliner in the living room years ago due to his odd and unfortunate hours. He never wanted to bother Hannie with his coming and going, plus he’d had the distinct feeling she didn’t want him in her bed. And he couldn’t blame her. He smelled like cows.
His hand touched the doorknob.
Should he go in? Would she order him out? Was she sleeping already? He had no idea how she spent her evenings. No idea how she would respond if he knocked.
No idea who she was anymore.
When had that happened?
He slipped back downstairs, avoiding the third to last step, which would creak under his weight. She used to wait up for him, eager to hear about his day and make sure he had enough to eat. Sometimes she would be wearing something short and made of satin. But how long could a man expect a woman to keep giving when she got nothing in return?
He heaved himself into the old recliner, the quietness in the house now breathing and pulsing in a way he’d never noticed before. This was the silence she’d been living with. This was the bed he had made.
Unable to bear it, he flipped on the TV. Voices. He needed voices. Life. He needed life. Hannie. He needed . . .
He fell asleep thinking about those pretty pink shoes.
CHAPTER
THREE
Rae Walters snapped her biology textbook shut and checked the time. Almost midnight. A long-haired gray cat yawned and stretched on the couch beside her.
“This is the price we pay for straight A’s, Mr. Whiskers.” Not that she would need to know what peristalsis was to become a lawyer. She tousled the cat’s scruffy head. “We’ll go to bed in a minute.”
She paused to listen for any noise. Mom and Dad had gone to bed over an hour ago. In socked feet, she crept down the hall and into the garage, Mr. Whiskers close behind.
He meowed.
Rae put a finger to her lips. “I know, I know.”
She quietly opened the door of her mom’s navy blue Ford
