Thomas had given her first good knife.
She had lost it when bakery sold.
Emotion rose.
Reed saw.
“Wrong?”
“No.”
Audra swallowed.
“It’s perfect.”
For a moment the room disappeared.
Thomas.
Flour on his hair.
The old bakery oven.
His hands guiding hers as she learned to sharpen blades.
Audra blinked quickly.
Reed lowered voice.
“You don't have to use it.”
She looked up.
“I will.”
After dinner Reed found her outside.
Snow fell softly.
Audra stood beside cook shack wearing thick shawl.
He approached but stopped several feet away.
“Cold.”
“I know.”
“Why are you outside?”
“Quiet.”
He nodded.
They stood.
After a minute he said:
“Thomas?”
Audra looked sharply.
“How do you know?”
“You said husband’s name once.”
“When?”
“Sleep talking.”
Her eyes widened.
“You were in my room?”
“No.”
“You fell asleep in kitchen.”
“Oh.”
She relaxed.
“Yes.”
“Thomas.”
Reed waited.
Audra said:
“He gave me a knife when we opened bakery.”
“Good man?”
“Yes.”
“Mostly.”
She smiled.
“He hated bookkeeping.”
“So do I.”
“Then you would have liked him.”
Reed looked toward snow.
“Do you still love him?”
Audra expected discomfort.
Possessiveness perhaps.
Instead genuine question.
“Yes.”
Reed nodded.
“Good.”
She frowned.
“Good?”
“If you said no, I’d think dying erased people.”
Audra looked at him differently.
“Were you married?”
“No.”
“Almost?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“She chose someone else.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Long ago.”
“Still hurts?”
“Sometimes.”
Audra smiled faintly.
“Then dying isn't only thing that leaves rooms.”
Reed looked at her.
“No.”
Wind shifted.
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
Audra felt awareness move through body.
Not shame.
Something warmer.
Reed said:
“You should go inside.”
“You first.”
“I live across yard.”
“Then walk.”
He almost smiled.
“Merry Christmas, Audra.”
“Merry Christmas, Reed.”
He left.
She watched longer than necessary.
January brought disaster.
Not romance.