Caleb Wright had just helped me pick wood stain. Like it was nothing. Like I wasn't the guy who'd destroyed Elena's life. Like we were just two people in a hardware store on a Saturday afternoon.
I grabbed a brush and some rags and headed for the checkout.
Mom wasin the living room when I walked in, sitting in her chair by the window. The afternoon light caught the dust motes floating between her and the glass. She was still in her housecoat, a cup of tea gone cold on the side table.
"Oh good, you're here," she said, looking up. "I wanted to ask you something."
I set the bag down in the hallway. "Yeah?"
"Do you think ivory or white? For the wedding dress." She smoothed her hands over her lap like she was picturing fabric there. "My mother says ivory's more flattering, but I keep thinking white."
Somewhere in her head, it was 1983 and she had her whole life ahead of her.
"Mom..."
"I'm just so nervous." She laughed, that bright sound I remembered from childhood. "Isn't that silly? I love him. I know I do. But what if I mess it up somehow?"
I sat down on the couch across from her. "You won't mess it up."
"How do you know?" She looked at me, and for a second I thought maybe she'd come back, maybe she'd recognize me. But then: "Everyone says marriage is hard. That you have to work at it."
"Yeah. That's true."
"Bill's so patient with me. Even when I get anxious about things." She smiled at the photo. "I don't want to take that for granted, you know? I want to be someone he can count on."
I couldn't speak.
"He makes me laugh," she said, still looking out the window. "Even when I'm being ridiculous. I forgot my shoes at the church the other day—can you imagine? And he just smiled and said we'd go back for them." She laughed softly. "I want to remember that. When things get hard. That he's kind."
"That's..." I swallowed. "That's a good thing to remember."
She looked up at me. "I just want to be good to him. That's not so hard, is it?"
"No," I said. "That's not hard."
But I knew it was. I knew exactly how hard it was.
The front door opened and Dad came in from the garage. He saw Mom in her chair, saw me on the couch, and something passed across his face—that flicker of pain he tried so hard to hide.
"Carol?" he said gently. "What are you two talking about?"
"The wedding," she said. "I was just asking about the dress. Whether I should..." She stopped, confused, looking at Dad, then at me. "I was..."
"White," Dad said, crossing to her chair. He crouched beside her and touched her hand. "You wore white. You looked beautiful."
"Did I?" She covered his hand with hers.
"You did."
He looked at me over her head, and I stood up.
"I'm going to go work on the porch," I said.
Dad nodded. "Dinner in an hour."
I went outside. The porch railing was rough under my hands, the wood gray and weathered from decades of winters. I opened the can of stain—the one Caleb had picked—and started brushing it on.
He was right. It soaked into the wood, filling the grain, protecting it from the inside out.
