The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(58)

“I’ve been to Wheeler, so I know what you mean,” said Bree. “Me, I prefer farther afield. Reuben and I just trekked through Scotland. Next summer, we’re hitting the Amalfi Coast.” She laughed. “My Reuben may come from a desert people, but he loves the sea.”

Reuben was approaching with a tray, Simon close behind. He placed four foaming glasses on the table, along with four forks. I thought he’d made a mistake in the cutlery till Simon set down a small plate: on it was a huge cinnamon bun—exactly like the ones from my late-night binges in college.

Simon handed me a fork. “They even warmed it,” he said. “Shall we?”

They waited for me to take the first bite. It tasted just as I remembered, down to the sweet, dripping butter.

“They make these here?” I asked.

“Not ordinarily,” Simon said vaguely. “You have to know who to talk to.”


*

Later that night, Simon insisted on driving me home. He opened the passenger door of his truck and offered his hand to help me inside. I ignored the hand and climbed in on my own. The bench seat was upholstered in soft cowhide that warmed my legs, despite the deepening chill.

Simon started the engine, then turned a knob on the dashboard. “Doesn’t take long for the heat to kick in.”

“I’m fine.”

I slid his coat from my shoulders and folded it neatly. I laid it on the seat between us.

“Are you?” he asked. I knew he wasn’t talking about the chill.

The evening had been surprisingly pleasant, but now that Simon and I were alone, the resentment was back and doubling down. Just how was he expecting this lift back to the farmhouse to end? With the two of us parked in the driveway steaming up the truck windows? Sloppy kisses on the porch?

Besides, I couldn’t look at him without seeing Davey pulling off his cowboy hat, exposing that face . . .

I turned toward the side window and watched as Morro swept past. The truck left the asphalt and hit the dirt road with a faint bump. As we drove on toward the farm, I shifted in the seat to look behind us.

Tonight the snowcap on the Mountain shone with a kind of phosphorescence. And there near the top was Olin’s night-light.

If I climbed up and found that light, if I touched it, would it burn like fire? Or like ice?

Simon was reaching for the knob on the dash again.

“Corral’s almost finished,” he said as warm air fanned my legs. “Pegasus has even jumped the rails a few times, but he always comes back. I wouldn’t have thought he could hurdle that high—not in his shape. Maybe he’s got wings after all.”

I dragged my eyes from the Mountain and straightened in my seat. “You’re keeping the name?”

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint Davey,” he said.

“He seems like a nice boy.”

“He is.”

“Yes,” I said tonelessly. “And he looks exactly like a nine-year-old version of my husband.” The words tasted bitter as rue on my tongue. “Except he has my eyes. Didn’t you notice?”

I turned to stare at the window glass. I could feel Simon studying me, but he was silent for a long while. Then, “I knew there was something.”

We were almost at the house now; the drive from town wasn’t long. Despite the warm air in the cab, I was shivering all over again.

“Yes,” I said. “There was something.”

Simon didn’t answer. He kept his hands level on the wheel, his eyes on the road. And just . . . waited.

I felt no demands from him. No expectations. No judgments.

I knew we could ride the rest of the way without another word being said—we could drive clear up to Canada as silent as two monks—and it would be perfectly fine with him.

But this time the truth sat painfully in my throat, straining to burst free. This time there was no one compelling me to speak.

And that meant no one to resist.

“I was pregnant once before,” I began quietly. “Before Laurel, I mean. I lost the baby early. If he’d been born—” I shook my head. “His name was David. At least, that was my name for him. His due date was in June. Nine years ago. Sound familiar?”

I was startled to realize my cheeks were wet. I wiped at the tears, then stared at my fingers.

We were drawing up on the farmhouse, pulling into the drive. The porch light was on; a single lamp shone through the front window. The rest of the house was dark. It wasn’t late, but Olin and Jessie kept farm hours.