“You’ve complained about my coffee for fifty-three years.”
“And I’ve been right fifty-three years.”
She sat.
They watched sunlight move across the pasture.
After a while, Garrick said:
“Remember the stagecoach?”
Nola laughed.
“You hated me.”
“I did not hate you.”
“You looked at me like somebody delivered a broken plow.”
“I was grieving.”
“You were rude.”
“Both can be true.”
She smiled.
He had learned her language.
Garrick continued:
“I thought I needed someone young.”
“You got someone young.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Yes.”
“I really thought you were older.”
Nola slapped his arm.
Even at seventy-something.
He laughed until coughing.
Then became quiet.
“You saved Weston.”
Nola shook her head.
“We saved him.”
“You found the bottle.”
“Yes.”
“Merritt identified it.”
“Yes.”
“He survived because all of us did something.”
“Yes.”
Garrick smiled.
“You still correct stories.”
“Someone has to.”
He reached for her hand.
“I was lucky.”
Nola looked toward him.
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She continued:
“You made some choices.”
“I made some.”
“Luck helped.”
“Bad luck hurt.”
“Don’t give luck all the credit.”
Garrick smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Those were not his last words.
He lived several more weeks.
But Nola remembered that morning most.
He died in their bed.
Children nearby.
Nola holding one hand.
Mae’s photograph still on the mantel downstairs.
Nothing unresolved that mattered.
Nola lived another eleven years.
She remained at Hollow Creek.
Not because she had nowhere else.
Because it was home.
Grandchildren came.
Great-grandchildren.
She became the terrifying old woman children adored and adults consulted only when prepared for answers they might not like.
At eighty-nine—though she insisted everyone stop counting—she still corrected ranch accounts.
One great-granddaughter asked:
“Were you really only twenty-five when you came here?”
Nola stared.
“What does that mean?”
The girl laughed.
“Nothing.”
“Careful.”
The child held up an old photograph.
Nola young.
Hair messy.
Apron dirty.
Standing beside Garrick.
Three children in front.
Weston looked tiny.
The great-granddaughter asked:
“Was Grandpa Garrick handsome?”
Nola considered.
“Eventually.”
The girl laughed.
Then:
“Did you love him immediately?”
“No.”
“When?”
Nola looked toward the photograph.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s boring.”
“Life often is.”
The girl frowned.
“Stories say people know.”
“Stories lie.”
Nola smiled.
“Love is sometimes one big moment.”
“More often it is somebody repairing your door.”
“Bringing water.”
“Remembering how you take coffee.”
“Listening when you’re angry.”
“Staying when staying is freely chosen.”
The child thought.
“That’s not very romantic.”
Nola smiled.
“Wait until you’re old.”
Near the end of her life, Clara sat beside her.
Now elderly herself.
Nola’s breathing had weakened.
Outside, Hollow Creek remained green from spring runoff.