Page 3 of Sweet Beloved

“You want a beer?” she asks me.

I shake my head. “We’re good with water.”

I like a good beer with dinner in the summer, but trying to mediate my younger sons is difficult. I don’t care if Slate drinks since he’s almost an adult. Hell, I don’t give a fuck if Gage has a beer here and there. I know they drink with Cash Sovereign sometimes. But it’ll set off the other two, asking why they can’t have one too.

It’s better to keep the peace. I’ll have a whiskey upstairs later.

Freya reaches out and takes my hand, looking over her full table. “Alright, let’s eat.”

CHAPTER TWO

FREYA

The house is perfectly silent. Outside, I catch a hint of conversation as I leave the bathroom. I’m showered, my hair braided to protect my curls, my face slathered with cold cream. Barefoot, I creep over to the triple floor-to-ceiling windows and look down over the yard.

My husband and eldest son stand in the lawn. Two cherry tipped cigarettes glitter in the dark. Instinctively, I frown. They don’t smoke much because they know I don’t like it, but now and then, when the horses and cows are sleeping and the day is done, they’ll loiter on the porch together and break open a pack.

Lighters flick, a breeze that smells of summer nights making them dance. They blow smoke up into the stars. It’s free, the way I am.

I might not like the smoking, but I love seeing them talking together. This is all I wanted—to define my world, to live at peace. Deacon got everything he ever wanted too. Now, I get to watch him laugh and talk with his son, shooting the shit without a worry in the world.

Tomorrow, they’ll rise and work the land. We take care of it and it takes care of us, just like Deacon and I. Then, after dinner, I’ll see a glimpse of them through the window again, talking under the dark sky.

We made this world together, and it’s sweet and slow and perfect.

I peel myself from the window and go upstairs to my attic room. Over the years, Deacon has added more shelving to the walls. He tore up the flooring once for me, but then I decided I didn’t like the replacement tiles I picked and wanted the original boards back. I apologized profusely. He just shook his head, standing in a pile of flooring, and saidthat’s alright, sweetheart. I just want you to have what you want.

Now, it’s back to fern green boards, sanded to silk, painted by hand. Laid over them is a braided rug Ginny and I made during one of my pregnancies. A lot of this work was done while pregnant. The vines and flowers painted on the baseboards and around the windows. The knitted lace that drapes over the collection cases. The hand sewn curtains.

Deacon made sure I had help when the boys were little. Janie, Bittern’s wife, was a big part of my support system. I never had hard pregnancies, but I carried low and had trouble walking as the months progressed. As much as I love the boys and didn’t mind being pregnant, it was an unexpected relief when Deacon got snipped. We’ve never been good at not making babies.

Now, I have all these things to remind me of the last seventeen years—not just making a family with him, but the little bits and pieces I brought with me from Appalachia. My love for the woods, the mountains. My insects, my books, my stories I’ve been writing down in the notebooks he gave me.

Downstairs, I hear a faint click, and I cock my head towards the stairs. The distant sound of Slate walking down the hallappears and disappears. It’s replaced by Deacon making his rounds, shutting down the lights and locking doors.

My heart picks up. It always does when I know we’re about to be alone together. I was going to pick out a book to read tonight, but now that I’m listening to my husband’s boots make their way around the house, I’m thinking I’d like to do something else. Quickly, I move down the attic steps and head to our bedroom.

Inside, I slip my dressing gown off. Underneath, I’m in the same slip I’ve been wearing for years. He bought it for me a little while after our wedding. Every time it wears out, he just buys me another from the boutique in Knifley.

It’s cotton, lined with lace. Fern green.

The door opens. I scramble onto the bed, patting the comforter over my lap. He steps in, taking off his hat and hanging it on the wall. There’s a little mat and a chair for his outside things. Silently, with my chin rested on my knees, I watch him take his boots off.

“You tired?” he asks, glancing up.

I shake my head. God, he’s good looking, all salt and peppery. Deacon is seventeen years older than he was when I met him, but he’s as handsome as ever. I think it’s always being on the move that keeps him young. He thinks it’s all the sex. Maybe we’re both right.

He’s got gray, but it’s hard to see because he keeps his hair buzzed. There are faint lines around his eyes and mouth. When his face is still, I have to lean in close to see them. When he smiles, it’s like little pathways right to my heart.

“You come here,” I say.

He comes around my side of the bed, and I lean in to kiss him. My nose wrinkles.

“You could do with a shower,” I whisper.

He cocks his head, looking up at me with those dark puppy eyes. “Love me anyway?”

I smile, letting him kiss me hard. He smells like dust and sweat; a long day in the sun. Drawing back, he touches my face, playing with a curl by my temple. His gaze is so soft, like velvet. All these years of looking at gentle eyes on a harsh face, and it still entrances me.

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