“My wife died.”
Margaret went still.
The words had come harder than he intended.
Thomas looked down.
“I watched Eleanor disappear by inches.”
Margaret’s face softened completely.
“I know.”
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“You knew her.”
“But you did not wake beside her every morning wondering which one would be the last morning she recognized the window.”
Margaret said nothing.
Thomas continued.
“I buried her at fifty-two.”
“I stood beside the grave thinking the worst part of loving someone was that eventually one of you had to stand alone.”
Margaret looked toward the cottonwood tree east of the house.
Eleanor rested there.
Everyone knew.
Thomas’s voice became rough.
“Now you’re asking me to start again knowing exactly how the arithmetic ends.”
Margaret stepped closer, but not touching.
“No.”
Thomas looked at her.
“I’m asking you to stop deciding my life based on what happened to yours.”
The sentence struck him harder than she intended.
She saw it.
“Thomas, I’m sorry.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You’re right.”
Margaret looked at him.
Thomas sat slowly in the porch chair.
For several moments neither spoke.
Then Margaret sat on the step.
The distance between them felt almost formal after what had nearly happened.
Thomas looked at the pie.
“You put nutmeg in it?”
Margaret stared.
Then laughed helplessly.
Thomas smiled.
“There you are.”
“You nearly kiss me and now you want to discuss nutmeg?”
“I’m trying to recover.”
“You are terrible at it.”
“I haven’t practiced in a while.”
Margaret turned toward him.
“That much is obvious.”
Thomas actually laughed.
The tension shifted.
Not gone.
Simply made survivable.
Margaret rested her arms on her knees.
“Daniel asked me to the Harvest Social.”
Thomas’s smile disappeared.
“I heard.”
“How?”
“Feed store.”
“Of course.”
“Nothing remains private within twelve feet of flour sacks.”
Margaret smiled.
“I haven’t answered.”
Thomas looked toward the pasture.
“You should go.”
Her face changed.
“Why?”
“Because he’s a good man.”
“I didn’t ask whether he was good.”
“He’s closer to your age.”
“I didn’t ask his age either.”
Thomas looked at her.
Margaret stood.
“If you want me to choose him, Thomas, say it because you believe I want him.”
She stepped closer.
“Do not say it because he fits some picture you have decided I should want.”
Thomas could not answer.
Margaret nodded once.
Then she turned toward the field.
Thomas called:
“The pie.”
She looked back.
“You can keep that.”
“Margaret.”
“Yes?”
His eyes traveled over her face.
Then lower, briefly, before returning.
She noticed.
A tiny smile touched her mouth.
Thomas shook his head.
“Dangerous woman.”
Margaret’s smile deepened.
“Eat your pie.”