“You enter a room and the room changes.”
“Some people hate that.”
“I don’t.”
Lena looked down.
“That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Reid smiled.
“It wasn’t especially poetic.”
“Good.”
He moved slightly closer.
“Can I kiss you?”
Her heart stopped.
“You ask?”
“I’m trying not to get hit with a plate.”
She laughed.
Then whispered:
“Yes.”
Reid kissed her.
Nothing dramatic.
Gentle.
Warm.
Brief at first.
He pulled back.
Lena looked at him.
“That’s all?”
His eyebrows rose.
“I was being respectful.”
“Less respect.”
He kissed her again.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
They jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Emma appeared at the staircase.
“Why are you still here?”
Lena’s face burned.
“Dishes.”
Emma looked at the perfectly clean kitchen.
Then at Reid.
Then Lena.
“Oh.”
She turned around.
“Goodnight.”
Reid covered his face.
Lena laughed until she had to sit down.
Autumn became the happiest season Lena could remember.
Not perfect.
Happiness rarely is.
The bakery remained exhausting.
Her knees hurt more in cold weather.
Reid’s ranch finances were tighter than he admitted.
Emma still had grief spells.
One afternoon she screamed at Lena because Lena used her mother’s blue mixing bowl.
The reaction came without warning.
“That’s Mama’s!”
Lena immediately set it down.
“I didn’t know.”
“You can’t use it!”
“I won’t.”
“You’re not her!”
The room froze.
Reid came through the doorway.
“Emma.”
Lena raised one hand.
“No.”
The child was crying.
Lena crouched as far as her knees allowed.
“You’re right.”
Emma sobbed.
“I don’t want you to be Mama.”
“Good.”
The child looked confused.
Lena continued.
“I can’t be.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You already have a mother.”
Emma wiped her nose.
“She’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“And that is terribly unfair.”
Emma stared.
Most adults avoided saying dead.
Lena did not.
“You can love me without making me her.”
“You can be angry when something reminds you of her.”
“But you cannot scream at people every time you’re hurting.”
Emma looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Lena pointed toward the bowl.
“Do you want me to put it away?”
Emma nodded.
“Then we put it away.”
Together they wrapped the bowl in cloth.
Reid watched silently.
Later he said:
“You handled that better than I would have.”
Lena looked at him.
“That isn’t difficult.”
“True.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I’m afraid she’ll think loving you betrays her mother.”
“She might.”
“What do we do?”
“Don’t make her choose.”
That became their rule.
They spoke of Emma’s mother.
They kept photographs visible.
Reid told stories.
Lena listened.
At first it hurt.
Then she understood something.