Agnes Pomeroy got her monstrance back in time for her eightieth birthday. She called to thank me, then told me she’d had three deadbolts put on her front door. “Better late than never,” she said. I think about that sentence a lot.
I don’t take out-of-town jobs longer than two nights anymore. Mason started seeing a counselor named Dr. Reyes every Thursday. A few weeks in, on the drive home, he asked me something without looking up from the window.
“Why didn’t you ever ask me if I was happy with Colleen?”
I gave him the only honest answer I had. “Because I was scared of what you’d say. I’m sorry, Mase. I’m asking now. Every time.”
He nodded. That was enough for that day.
Last Saturday, on a warm, bright morning, I found him on the back porch again, loading the Maytag. His jeans, my work shirts, Joan’s tablecloth she’d left after Sunday dinner. All of it in together.
