“You screamed that if I let go, you were a dead man.”
“Seems reasonable.”
“I was terrified.”
“So was I.”
“Not of falling.”
Henry looked at her.
She continued.
“I had known you three weeks.”
“Yes.”
“I thought marriage was supposed to be practical.”
“So did I.”
“And suddenly all I could think was that if you fell, I would be alone.”
Henry reached for her hand.
Clara smiled sadly.
“I think I loved you before I knew the word belonged there.”
Henry kissed her fingers.
“Same.”
She leaned against him.
“Then perhaps the storm did us a favor.”
Henry looked toward the snowy window.
“Could have been less dramatic.”
“You would not have noticed.”
“That is insulting.”
“True.”
He laughed.
Clara's health failed gradually.
No single dramatic illness.
Age.
Heart strain.
Years of carrying a body that demanded enormous effort from every joint and organ.
Doctors had been warning them for some time.
Clara listened.
Henry pretended not to.
One spring, she stopped joining breakfast at the table.
Henry brought it to the bedroom.
She looked at the tray.
“You burned the toast.”
“Tradition.”
“The eggs are overdone.”
“Eat.”
“The coffee remains criminal.”
“Forty years of consistency.”
She smiled.
Henry sat beside her.
They both understood.
Neither wanted to begin the conversation.
Clara finally did.
“You cannot threaten death into leaving.”
Henry's jaw tightened.
“I can try.”
“You did once.”
“What?”
“In Helena. You looked at my uncle as if intimidation could fix mortality.”
“That was different.”
“No.”
She reached for his hand.
Henry refused to cry.
Not yet.
Clara said, “I have had a good life.”
“Not finished.”
“I didn't say it was.”
“Then don't talk like it.”
“Henry.”
He looked away.
She waited.
Eventually he looked back.
Clara continued.
“When I boarded that train, I thought success meant surviving long enough to claim what belonged to me.”
Henry listened.
“Then I arrived here.”
Her eyes moved around the room.
“And discovered I had been thinking too small.”
Henry's face broke.
Clara squeezed his hand.
“I had a husband who rebuilt doors.”
He laughed through tears.
“Badly.”
“Some.”
“Which?”
“The pantry.”
“That door was crooked before.”
“It remained crooked after.”
Henry shook his head.
Clara smiled.
“Children.”
“Yes.”
“Grandchildren.”
“Yes.”
“A ranch.”
“Yes.”
“Terrible coffee.”
“Yes.”
“I won.”
Henry could not answer.
Clara touched his cheek.
“I won, Henry.”
He closed his eyes against her palm.
She lived another nine months.
Long enough for one more summer.
Long enough to sit on the porch while grandchildren ran through grass.
Long enough to complain about Henry's tomatoes.
Long enough to dictate several letters and revise her charitable trust.
Long enough to make Henry promise something.
“No mausoleum.”
He frowned.
“I wasn't planning one.”