It feels right. Who else would it be? Showing up now, on the anniversary of his death. When I was in town getting library books, I looked up the obituaries around the time I know he died, and today is the one year anniversary; the funeral was immediate family only, so I wasn’t there, and I was out of town for work anyway. So…yeah. Who the hell else would show up, here, today, and stand there as if summoning the nerve to go in?

What does it mean for me?

In light of the note and the letter he left me, the book I have yet to read…what does it mean that she’s here?

The math of Adrian’s arrangements seems obvious. But…I recoil mentally from going down that road. I haven’t even met the woman. She’s grieving. Hell, I’m grieving—and I’m realizing I never did that. I just shut down, and then went about shuffling zombie-like through a muddy, miserable half-life.

I keep reading.

When she comes out again, it’s to unload her suitcases. I count five, and a duffel bag, plus her purse. Looks like she’s planning on staying a while. But so am I; on my last trip into town I brought a few of my carvings, showed them to the owner of the little shop that sells knickknacks and local art, and he agreed to try to sell them, for a few bucks off the top. I don’t need the money, but if I’m going to be sitting around carving, and the pieces don’t go anywhere, I’ll be up to my neck in them in a month.

Once all her suitcases are inside, she’s in there again for another hour, closer to two. I’m getting hungry, but my dinner isn’t ready yet. I found a second-hand crockpot in town the other day, and I’ve been playing around with pot roasts and such. Ain’t much for cooking, but you gotta learn sometime, right? Out here, living off fast food and pizza delivery ain’t an option. Which is probably a good thing for the diameter of my midsection.

She comes back out, a third time. This time, with a glass of wine in one hand, and the bottle in the other. It’s sunset, and a marvelous one. Lots of purple and crimson and orange reflected in the gently rippling lake. She sits in the Adirondack, sips her wine. Sighs, now and then.

I have no impulse to go over there. Not yet.

I go back to Louis L’Amour. Johannes Vern is talking to a giant—one of my favorite parts.