"Is it true?" Joan asked. "What everyone says?"
"What?"
"That you cheated on her." She said it casual, like she was commenting on the weather. "That true?"
My hands tightened on the arms of the chair. "Yeah, that’s… yes, it’s true."
"Mm." She nodded slowly. "Well, if I'd been Elena, I would've gutted you like a fish. Probably would've used the good knife too. The one I save for the Christmas ham."
I looked at her, and she was completely serious.
"But I'm not Elena," she said. "And you're still here." She tapped ash. "Frank was still here too, after I pulled my bullshit."
I glanced over, confused. "What?"
"You think you're the only person who ever fucked up?" She rocked slowly, not a care in the world. "I was seventeen. Met my Frank at a church social. Quiet boy, but steady. He had a good job at the feed store. Asked me to dinner three times before I said yes." A hint of a smile played on her lips. "Then Danny Carver came through town."
She paused, looking out at the horses.
"He worked construction and rode a motorcycle. Looked like James Dean if James Dean was an asshole. I went on two dates with him while I was still seeing Frank."
I didn't know what to say.
"Frank found out because Danny's dumb ass bragged about it at the bar. Frank showed up at my house, told me he loved me, but if I wanted Danny I should go ahead and take him." She looked at me. "Said he wouldn't wait around to be second choice."
"What'd you do?"
"Cried like an idiot. Then I told Danny to get lost and begged Frank to forgive me." She rocked slowly. "He did. We got married six months later. Had forty-three years before the cancer took him."
The wind picked up, colder now.
"Point is," Joan said, "we all fuck up. Some of us just do it louder than others."
"I don't think Elena would see it that way."
"Probably not. She's got every right to be done with you." Joan looked at me directly. But quit acting like you're damned for eternity. You made a mistake. A bad one. That's it."
I thought about the last three years. The extra shifts, the therapy sessions, running until my lungs burned. Every punishment I could think of, every attempt at redemption.
"Maybe," I finally said.
"Maybe?" Joan snorted. "Jesus Christ, boy. That right there is your problem. Maybe this, maybe that, I don't know, it's complicated." She looked at me hard. "Quit hedging. Because the real question here is what you're gonna do about it."
I stared out at the pasture. The mare was nosing the foal, gentle, protective.
"I don't know," I said.
"Course you don't. Because you're too busy playing the martyr. You came back here, gave up being some hotshot detective. No making waves, not making Elena's life hell. Hell, you even got the manners to respect she's with another man now." She exhaled smoke. "What are you, trying out for sainthood? Expecting a medal?"
I took a deep breath, having no idea what to say. Somehow this was harder than therapy. Dr. Schafer at least pretended to be gentle about it.
"Walking around here looking like somebody shot your dog." She shook her head. "Yeah, yeah. You messed up. You paid forit. You crawled through broken glass or whatever the hell. We all got the memo, Matthew. Now what?"
"It's not that easy."
"Ain't easy because you don't wanna move on, you jackass." She pointed her cigarette at me. "Don't try and bullshit me. I'm too old for it. I saw your face when her truck showed up three weeks ago. Looked like Christmas morning and a funeral at the same time."
I felt exposed, like she'd opened me up on that porch.
