When dawn finally breaks, I have a plan.
I dress quickly and step outside, noticing with some concern that Jericho’s truck is still not in the driveway. I decide to stick to my plan and drive to the diner anyway, arriving before anyone else. I unlock the door and flip on the lights, the familiar space comforting in its constancy. I start the coffee, pull out ingredients, and get to work.
By the time Roman arrives, I’ve baked two pies—apple cinnamon, Jericho’s favorite, and chocolate cream, which I’ve seen him devour on more than one occasion.
“Well, well,” Roman says, hanging up his coat. “What’s the occasion?”
“Peace offering,” I say, carefully boxing the pies.
He leans in to one of the pies to get a sniff. “Are you sure he won’t die?”
“I hope not because I’ve got plans.”
Roman nods, a slight smile playing at his lips. “Good luck to you both then.” Roman hands me a thermos of fresh coffee. “Give him my brew. To set the mood,” he adds with a wink.
I accept it even though I doubt Roman’s inhumane brew will set the right kind of vibe for this conversation.
The drive to Jericho’s house feels longer than usual, each turn of the wheel weighted with anticipation and dread. What if he’s still not home? What if he is, but he’s decided he doesn’t want to see me? What if I’ve waited too long?
When I pull up to his house, his truck is parked in the driveway. My heart leaps, then plummets. He’s home, but no lights are visible.
I sit in my car for several minutes, gathering courage. Thepies beside me fill the car with the scent of cinnamon and sugar, a homey smell that seems at odds with the knot in my stomach.
Finally, I take a deep breath and step out, cradling the bag of pies against my chest like armor. The walk to his front door feels like miles.
I knock, softly at first, then louder when there’s no response.
“Jericho?” I call, pressing my ear to the door. “It’s me.”
Silence.
I try the handle—locked. Of course.
Disappointment settles heavy in my chest. I turn to leave, but something stops me. The porch light. It’s on, despite the daylight. Jericho is meticulous about things like that. He wouldn’t leave a light on during the day.
I circle around to the back of the house, toward the screened porch where he works sometimes. The door there is slightly ajar.
“Jericho?” I call again, pushing it open wider.
The porch is empty, but I can see through the window into the kitchen. There’s a mug on the counter, steam still rising from it.
He’s here.
I knock on the kitchen door, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Jericho, please. I just want to talk.”
The door swings open so suddenly I nearly drop the pies. He stands there, hair disheveled, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He’s wearing my favorite red flannel and worn-out jeans that look so good on him.
“Nora?” His voice is rough as if he hasn’t used it for a while.
I hold up the bag. “I brought pies.”
His expression turns puzzled. “Pies.”
“Peace offering pie,” I clarify, feeling more foolish by thesecond. “Apple cinnamon. And chocolate cream. I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.”
He stares at me for a long moment.
“I don’t bake,” I say when the silence is too heavy. “Not anymore. For anyone. Everyone around me always bakes. Roman. Grandma. So there’s no need for me to bake.” I’m blabbering at this point. “Plus Dick always said… well, who cares what he said.”
