Page 43 of Just Say When

Part of that could be blamed on our schedules. Essie was up and out of the house a good three hours before me, since days started early at the ranch. Whereas I had the luxury of making my own schedule, and I had decided early on that that schedule would never start before nine a.m. One of the benefits of being the onlyattorney in a farming town was that my clients were unavailable before noon.

But that also meant I tended to stay late at the office. Most nights, Essie had eaten dinner and was already headed to her room for the night by the time I got home. We lived like ships passing in the night—or roommates passing in the hallway—more than husband and wife.

The only thing that had changed was the reading chair by the fireplace. That was new. It was the thing Essie had picked out at the furniture store. It was a deep green, made of soft corduroy material, big enough for her to curl up with a book, even with her long legs. One morning, I noticed a plaid throw blanket draped over the back. She was making use of her chair, even though I never saw her do it.

Because I never really saw her at all.

Still, I was glad to see evidence that she wasn’t just holing up in the guest room during the few hours she spent home every day. She had taken me at my word that this was her home, too.

I stopped by Jo’s before work on Wednesday. It was my ritual because I happened to like lattes, and I refused to get one of those stupid espresso machines that created mountains of extra trash one tiny plastic pod at a time. I would rather pay the five dollars and keep Colorado beautiful.

Chloe looked up as I entered with a jangle of the bells tied to the door. “The usual?”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

She plonked a white porcelain cup under the nozzle. I never got my latte to go, preferring to hang out a few minutes and get the local gossip. It wasn’t a business tactic—being the only lawyer in sixty miles meant Aspen Springs folks had little choice in the matter—but I found it helped me to remember the human side of my business. These were real people with real problems that I wanted to help solve.

“How’s married life, Brax?” Chloe asked as deep brown liquid streamed into the cup.

“Can’t complain.” I studied the glass case of pastries. Several varieties of muffins, including blueberry, pumpkin, and apple. Scones and biscuits. They served hot breakfasts here, too, but I wasn’t much for big breakfasts.

“No,” Chloe agreed. The corner of her mouth hitched up. “I suppose you couldn’t.”

What did she mean by that? James knew the truth—if we hadn’t told her along with our families, then Adam would have spilled it himself, so there wasn’t any point in hiding it. I was sure Essie hadn’t shared our secret with Chloe or her other friends.

But that didn’t mean Essie hadn’t said other things about me.

And just because we were supposedly happily married didn’t mean she couldn’t complain about me.

I glanced up from the pastries and found Chloewatching me while a knowing smile played on her lips. Like she knew exactly what I was wondering.

Chloe pushed a metal pitcher of milk under another nozzle and flipped the switch. Instantly steam hissed and she raised and circled the pitcher, heating the milk inside. When it was half milk, half froth, she poured it over the espresso, using a large spoon to hold back the froth until the cup was nearly full. Then she finished it off with a frothy aspen leaf.

“Nice,” I said.

She nodded, looking pleased. “I’m getting pretty good at foam art. Nothing super fancy yet, though.”

“I almost hate to ruin it,” I said, before taking a sip and doing exactly that. I wiped the milky froth from my upper lip. “But it has to be done.”

“Not all art is meant to be permanent. Maybe that’s what makes us appreciate it more.” She tilted her head. “Like love.”

I had the feeling she was leading me somewhere. Might as well go along with it. For now. “Isn’t love supposed to be permanent? The good kind, anyway.”

She shrugged. “Everyone dies, Brax.”

I held very, very still, my grip on the coffee mug so tight that my knuckles matched the white porcelain. And suddenly I was back there again, on the edge of the cliff, screaming Essie’s name. And I was next to my mother’s bed, her paper-thin skin nearly translucent asshe fell into her last sleep. Watching my dad fall apart and knowing I would have done the same.

“Eventually,” I said, my voice rough. “Everyone dieseventually.”

“Exactly. Everyone dies.” She said it so matter-of-factly. I wanted to throttle her. “I would have thought, growing up on a ranch, death wouldn’t be a squeamish topic for you.”

She wasn’t wrong. I had witnessed the end of life for many animals, including ones we intended to eat. “Death doesn’t make me squeamish,” I said. “I have a perfectly normal, healthy dislike for it, that’s all.”

“Hm,” she said. “I suppose anyone would dislike death after losing their mom so young, like you did.”

“I didn’t lose her young. I was a grown man when she died. Four years ago, now,” I corrected. I was surprised she didn’t know that. She wasn’t born and raised in Aspen Springs like most of the people here, but she’d been here for nearly a decade now. “She was nearly seventy when she passed. Cancer isn’t pleasant no matter when it happens, but she’d had a good life and we were able to keep her mostly comfortable at home in the end.”

“I’m glad she didn’t suffer.” She pulled an apple muffin from the case and slid it across the counter to me on a plate. “Here, try this. I want to see how the flavor goes with that espresso.”

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