“That isn't a recipe.”
“It is if you pay attention.”
Wyatt always laughed when frustrated women complained.
At fifty, Avalene remained softly full-figured.
Her brown hair had silver in it.
She still cooked most Sundays though there were hired kitchen helpers now.
Wyatt still hovered.
One morning he stood behind her while she rolled biscuits.
Avalene looked over her shoulder.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You've been staring twenty years.”
“Yes.”
“Still haven't learned manners?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Go away.”
Wyatt stepped closer instead.
His hands settled at her waist.
Avalene leaned back against him.
“Men are coming in ten minutes.”
“I know.”
“You're distracting the cook.”
“That’s my right.”
“Not written anywhere.”
“I own the ranch.”
Avalene turned in his arms.
“I run the kitchen.”
Wyatt considered.
“Fair.”
She kissed him.
Then pushed him away.
“Coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Higgins, now gray-haired and nearly deaf, entered.
“Still taking orders?”
Wyatt looked at him.
“Still trespassing?”
Higgins sat.
“Smelled biscuits.”
Some things never changed.
When Wyatt’s mother’s old room was finally opened, it was Avalene who suggested it.
Not Wyatt.
Their eldest daughter needed a larger bedroom.
Wyatt stood outside the locked door.
He had not entered in twenty-three years.
Avalene came beside him.
“You don't have to.”
Wyatt held the key.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“I do.”
They entered together.
Dust covered everything.
His mother’s quilt.
Chair.
Books.
A small sewing basket.
Avalene moved slowly.
Wyatt stood near the bed.
For several minutes he said nothing.
Then he found a box inside the desk.
Letters.
The responses to the marriage advertisement.
His mother had saved several.
Avalene’s sat on top.
Wyatt unfolded it.
The old words remained.
I am not asking for romance, Mr. Calder. I am asking for a roof and a purpose.
Avalene read over his shoulder.
She smiled.
“I was very serious.”
“You were terrifying.”
She laughed.
Wyatt turned the letter over.
His mother’s handwriting.
This one, Wyatt. Write to this one.
Below it was another line.
Neither had noticed before.
Fainter.
Perhaps written later.
Wyatt held the page toward the window.
Avalene read aloud.
She sounds like someone who knows how to build a home instead of merely wanting one.
Avalene stopped.
Wyatt stared.
His mother had understood.
From one letter.
Before either of them.
Avalene began crying.
Wyatt took her hand.
“She chose me.”
“Yes.”
“She didn't know me.”
“She knew enough.”
Avalene leaned into him.
After a while, Wyatt said:
“She would've loved you.”
Avalene wiped her face.
“I hope so.”
“No.”
Wyatt looked around the room.
“She would've been furious you reorganized her pantry.”
Avalene laughed through tears.
“Then we would've gotten along.”
Their daughter moved into the room.
Not as a shrine.
As a bedroom.
Yellow curtains.
Books everywhere.
Shoes under furniture.
Life.
Wyatt thought his mother would have approved.