Hammer’s voice broke.
“He said it looked good.”
“And then he asked me if you still slept with the stuffed rabbit.”
Lucy stared.
“Mr. Buttons?”
Hammer nodded.
“He knew?”
“He knew everything.”
Mara laughed through tears.
“He hated that rabbit.”
Lucy looked shocked.
“He did not.”
“He absolutely did.”
“Mom.”
“It had one eye and smelled like peanut butter.”
“That was because Daddy dropped him.”
Mara smiled.
For the first time that day, her grief included something besides pain.
A memory.
A family joke.
Owen became a husband again.
Not only a dead man.
That mattered.
Lucy looked toward Hammer.
“Did he hurt?”
The big man thought.
“For a little while.”
Mara closed her eyes.
Hammer did not lie.
“Then he stopped.”
“Were you holding him?”
Hammer nodded.
“Colt had his shoulders.”
“I had his hand.”
Colt turned away.
Lucy asked:
“Did he know you were there?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He squeezed once.”
The girl nodded.
That answer seemed enough.
Mara stood slowly.
Her face was exhausted.
She looked at Hammer.
“I hated you.”
“I know.”
“I told everyone you killed him.”
Hammer nodded.
“Not everyone.”
“Enough.”
“Yes.”
“I kept you away from Lucy.”
“Yes.”
“I threw away the birthday gift.”
“Yes.”
Mara’s face crumpled.
“I was wrong.”
Hammer’s response came immediately.
“So was I.”
She looked at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Owen asked you.”
“He was dying.”
“That does not make every request wise.”
Hammer looked toward Lucy.
“I should’ve found a way to tell you enough without breaking everything.”
“You wouldn’t have listened.”
“Probably not.”
“So?”
“That doesn’t mean I stop trying.”
Mara stared.
Hammer continued.
“I used his promise as permission to hide.”
“That was easier for me too.”
Her expression changed.
“What do you mean?”
“If I kept the promise exactly, I didn’t have to stand on your porch and let you hate me to my face.”
“I could tell myself I was honorable.”
He looked toward the old water-stained birthday package.
“But honorable would’ve been finding a way to help you understand without making Lucy carry the secret.”
Mara said nothing.
Hammer stood.
“I’m sorry.”
Not:
I forgive you.
Not:
We’re even.
Just:
“I’m sorry.”
Mara nodded.
“I am too.”
It was not reconciliation.
Not yet.
It was the first plank in a bridge neither trusted enough to cross.
Lucy turned toward the envelopes.
She picked up number five.
Then six.
Seven.
Eight.
She held all four.
“Can we go home?”
Mara nodded.