He came at ten.
We worked outside while Ruth watched from the kitchen window with absolutely no attempt at subtlety.
Marcus measured. I painted. He asked before drilling anything into anything. Once, he reached automatically for the door, then stopped and knocked because I was inside rinsing a brush.
I opened it.
“You can come in for lunch.”
His fingers tightened around the doorknob.
“Thank you.”
By dusk, seven stars marked the path from the pavement to my steps. The last tilted a little toward the flowerbed.
The porch lights caught their surfaces, and small gold shapes shone above the winter grass.
On Christmas Day, Ruth brought potatoes. Stephanie brought a pie from the bakery beside her shop. Marcus brought bread he had made twice because the first loaf hadn’t risen.
There were no suitcases in the hallway.
His father’s recliner held Ruth’s coat.
We ate at the table with the extra leaf in, passing bowls and interrupting one another about harmless things. When Marcus laughed, I heard the grown man he might still become, and when he went quiet, I no longer hurried to rescue him from it.
After dinner, he washed the dishes.
I dried.
He handed me my good serving platter with both hands.
“Same time next Sunday?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Call before you come.”
“I will.”
Later, I walked everyone to the porch. Marcus hugged me only after I opened my arms. His cheek brushed the place where the bruise had long since disappeared.
Then he stepped back and went down the path, following the stars his father had made.
I watched until he reached the pavement.
Behind me, the house smelled of cinnamon, warm bread, and pine.
I went inside, turned the lock with a steady hand, and carried my tea to the light.
