Look what I’m doing! Got up early and had an idea. We should grow our own garden. Tomatoes and lettuce. Maybe some potatoes? Hell, we could can our own tomatoes, jar our own beans… We could come up with our own family recipe for things like ketchup. Spaghetti sauce! The Mumford-Beake brand! What do you think?

I couldn’t help smiling as I scrolled through a couple of pictures he had sent from what was obviously an orange cart from Home Depot. Despite the chilly weather, he was walking around the home store, filling the cart with tiny packets of seeds and bags of soil.

I loved when Asher was like this, excited like a small child, his ability to jump from one task to the next overwhelming but fun.

I liked the idea of a garden. And I especially liked how he had hyphenated my name.

As much as I wanted to be a Beake, I didn’t want to give up Mumford either. It was my mother’s last name, and being the only Mumford left to carry it on, letting the surname go felt like letting a piece of myself die. I wasn’t ready to do that yet…

Before I could respond to the messages about the garden, I scrolled down to the last few he’d sent.

Oops. It’s too cold to start the garden and I’ll need to rent or buy a tiller first. Plus, I want to wait until you’re here to get that started. I was bored without you, so I started doing some unpacking. And I got to looking at your art. Guess what? I found some of your older pieces, in a long white tub that I think came from your last apartment. It looks like it’s been packed away for a while. I’ve never seen some of these before. They’re brilliant baby!

The last photo he’d sent was of a stark canvas, red river swirls running through it.

We need to hang this by our Christmas tree in the winter. Reminds me of candy canes and cherry pie.

That had been the last message he’d sent, several hours ago.

I clutched the phone in my hand, oblivious to LeeAnn’s fingers, twisting slices of my hair into small braids. It certainly wasn’t a painting inspired by Christmas. It was blood on snow. Head swiveling in the cold. Dark dead eyes staring into mine as skinny little rivers of blood created a trail in the powdery white earth…

“You, okay?” LeeAnn asked, breathy in my ear.

I jerked, feeling the tug of my scalp as my hair snapped back in her thick, working hands.

“Fine. Are we almost done? I’m getting antsy.”