Gerrit stared at her hand. Why was Hannie frowning like that, cheeks pinker than a calf’s tongue? And had she stumbled over calling him her husband or had that been his imagination? She stood in front of him like a sentinel.
Jillian dropped her hand, and Hannie sighed. “I’m sorry, Jillian. He doesn’t get out much.”
He quickly stuck out his hand, but Jillian had already bounced away.
“You too,” he said.
Hannie put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here? And what are you wearing?”
He looked down. Most of his clothes had been moved to the downstairs hall closet long ago, but he’d dared enter Hannie’s room—their room—to look for anything he’d forgotten about that might be a little . . . fresher. He’d found this shirt in the back of her—their—closet. He had no idea where it had come from or what its purpose had ever been, but it had a collar and no holes.
Hannie tugged at a tag still hanging from his left armpit. “I remember this shirt now. Evi bought it for you for Christmas once. It doesn’t fit.”
His forehead scrunched. His daughter bought him this shirt? That must have been over ten years ago.
“Well?” Hannie waited.
“It’s hard to breathe in here.”
Her frown deepened.
He swallowed. “I mean—”
“Did you need something?” She smoothed the front of his shirt and nudged him closer to the door. “My goodness, you’re a mess. Did you burn the house down or something? Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m going to make dinner.”
A half smile pulled at one corner of her mouth. “So you’re planning to burn the house down.”
“Yes.”
She smirked.
“I mean, no.” He threw up his hands. “I have to pick up groceries.”
“We’re going to have to get you some new clothes if you’re going to be out in public.”
“Fettuccine Alfredo.”
She looked over her shoulder. “It’s almost time to close up the shop. I need to get back to work.”
The light caught her hair so it shimmered with streaks of silver. Some of it was still the deep golden color of late-summer hay, though much of it had turned to gray when he wasn’t looking. His fingers itched to touch it, but he would never.
She turned back to him and gave the door a pointed look.
He flushed and nodded. “I’ll meet you at the house.”
At the grocery store, he filled his cart with salmon, noodles, self-loathing, and second-guesses as he bumbled around searching for garlic salt. Why had he ever thought it would be a good idea to visit Hannie at her shop? When was the last time he’d set foot in that place? That was her world. Her domain. And even—yes, he’d admit it—her refuge. From him.
He chose the shortest checkout line and dumped his items on the belt, grumbling to himself about the price of butter. He’d never be able to make his nest egg last at $3.49 a pound for butter. And where did they get the nerve to charge so much for salmon they caught two miles away? The stiff collar of his shirt grew tighter as he neared the front of the line until he could barely breathe when his turn came.
“Hi, there.” The woman at the register wore a black vest with a name tag and gave him a chipper smile. “How are you today?”
He grunted. Did he know this person? She acted like she knew him.
“Have you been enjoying the sunshine?” she asked.
“Uh . . .” He floundered. How exactly did one enjoy the sunshine?
“This salmon looks amazing.” She slid each item over the scanner and into a bag with practiced movements. “I love salmon.”
So much talking. All he wanted to do was go home and make dinner for his wife. Did Hannie know how much butter cost?
“Ahem.” The cashier looked at him expectantly. What had she just said? “Your total’s $28.75.”
He flushed. “Fettuccine Alfredo.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
A strange, tight feeling gripped Gerrit’s throat when he pulled up to the house and found Hannie had beat him home. He thought of the blue-and-white suitcase and braced himself.
She was waiting for him with her arms crossed when he entered the kitchen. “I got a call from Agatha. As soon as I got home.”
He set the grocery bags on the counter.
“It’s been one day, Gerrit.” Her voice rose. “You can’t stay out of trouble for one day?”
His brow furrowed. He hadn’t seen Agatha in months. “I didn’t talk to Agatha.”
Hannie rubbed her forehead. “George is livid about the bush.”
Oh. That. He let out his breath. And here he’d thought he was in trouble. George should be thankful for what he’d done. That bush was a danger to society.
He concentrated on pulling food out of the bags. “I wanted to help.”
“You can’t trespass on private property. What were you thinking?”
Gerrit snorted. “Technically, mailboxes belong to the federal government. They’re not private property.”
Hannie’s nostrils flared as she watched him deposit the cold items inside the fridge. “And why is Daisy limping?”
He hid behind the open fridge door. Good thing he’d already cleaned up the blood. “I wanted to help.”
“What did you do?”
“Her nails were long.”
He avoided looking at Hannie as he pulled a large pot and a saucepan from the cupboard. He kept his back to her as he filled the pot with water and set it on the stove to boil.
“Was that before or after you took her for a walk?”
He could not safely answer that question. He opened the package of pasta and examined its contents carefully.
Hannie sighed behind him. “She’s got special clippers. For dogs. They’re in the top drawer of the dresser by the back door.”
That was good to know, although Gerrit was pretty sure Daisy would run and hide if she saw him holding clippers of any kind ever again.
He dared a glance at Hannie as he pulled out the butter and caught her yawning. “You were up early.”
“Every Monday and Thursday.”
“I’m making dinner.”
“Yes.” She blinked. “I can see that.”
The butter sizzled when he dropped it in the saucepan. Why had he
