His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I heard about your knee replacement.”

“From whom?” Had one of the Coos Bay friends who’d been keeping in touch with her shared the news with him?

“Charley—indirectly. He mentioned it, assuming I already knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I?”

“You’re my wife, Beth. I love you—and I’m here for you. Why haven’t you let me help you?”

She steeled herself against the hurt in his inflection. “I can manage on my own.”

“I know that—but you don’t have to.”

“Maybe I want to.”

He scrutinized her. “Do you?”

No.

Going through the knee replacement by herself, despite the support of a few close friends and Christi, had been far more taxing than she’d expected. Steve could have relieved that burden. Would relieve it now, during the remainder of her recovery, if she let him.

But practical considerations didn’t justify inviting him back into her life.

“I’m learning to like being independent.” Hopefully he wouldn’t call her on that hedge.

He regarded her with the discerning shrewdness that served him well in his job, and she held her breath.

Thankfully, he let her comment go. “If you won’t accept my help, I hope you’ll accept these.”

He lifted a generous bouquet that contained all her favorite flowers, in her favorite color—Siberian iris, hydrangea, delphinium—and her heart thawed a few degrees.

Unlike some men who were stingy with tangible expressions of love once a wife was wooed and won, Steve had never stopped bringing her flowers, helping with household chores, and taking her out to intimate dinners to let her know how much he cared for her. How special she was to him.

Their life together would have been as perfect as possible in an imperfect world if they hadn’t clashed on a regular basis about Jonathan.

How different it all could have turned out if Steve had seen the light.

Her vision fogged, and she dipped her chin on the pretense of fiddling with one of her crutches.

“I’ll be happy to carry these in for you, since your hands are occupied.”

Beth stared at the Berber carpet beneath her feet.

Letting him into her apartment wasn’t wise—but she couldn’t tote the flowers, and refusing them seemed petty. And unkind.

She swallowed and drew back. “You can put them on the coffee table.”

He stepped around her, leaving the familiar scent of his aftershave in his wake.

Another wave of yearning swept over her.

Oh, how she’d missed that—and all the sweet memories it evoked of happier days, when she’d still clung to the hope he’d come to appreciate Jonathan’s amazing talent as much as he’d always appreciated their son’s kindness, intellect, and principles.