After a minute, he says, “That woman from a few days ago… She’s your ex-wife?”
I knew we’d arrive at the topic eventually. “Yes, that’s my ex-wife.” My stomach lurches at the word.
He nods slowly. “I’ve known a lot of guys with ex-wives. I can’t say I’ve ever seen any of them act like that when they see them.”
“There’s some unfinished business.” There really isn’t. The papers were signed. Our assets split or dissolved. On paper, we are done.
“Sure looked to be that way.”
“How long have you been married to Kimberley?”
“Forty-one years.”
I tap the sawhorse behind me with two knuckles. “Did you think it would be easy?”
“Never.”
“I don’t know why, but I went into marriage thinking it would be easy. People talk about ‘hard times,’ but that concept sounded like, well, a concept. Something that couldn’t be applied to me and her.” So arrogant. Like Avery, I’d believed hard times belonged to other people. It didn’t occur to me the hard time could be a living, breathing organism. A person. Me.
“I take it you hit those hard times?”
I laugh once, a hollow sound. “Head-on.”
Joel eyes me. He knows where my story leads, but we don’t talk about it much. The mention of prison makes people uneasy, and for good reason. They immediately think violence, repeat offenders, hardened criminals. Danger. Not someone making the worst mistake of their life, and paying dearly for it.
I learned all about what people think of ex-cons when I was trying to get a job after I got out. One glance at my application and out the door I went. Time after time, I watched the curtain close over their expressions, the polite head nod as they came up with a reason for why they weren’t hiring. Then I remembered Drew, who I’d met on the inside, telling me about his uncle Joel after he learned I liked working with wood. Drew made it sound like his uncle was a salt of the earth guy who believed in second chances. I found a parole officer in the area, packed my bags, and drove up here to Sugar Creek. I introduced myself to Joel and Kimberley, and Joel agreed to take a chance on me.
“Do you think there’s any hope for you two?” Joel asks.
My lips purse and I look down at my dirty jeans. “She said she’s over me. And she doesn’t want to see me again.”
“Hmm.”
It’s a dubious sound, and draws my attention back to him.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“If she’s over you, why doesn’t she want to see you again?”
“Because I remind her of a time she’d prefer to forget.”
“I’m not buying it.”
I smile at his insistence.
“I’m just sayin’”—he lifts his hands—“I’ve been alive for a long time, and I know more about women than you do. I saw that young lady’s face. She’s about as over you as Kimberley is over me.”
“You sound like a romantic.”
He pats his chest, just above his heart. “A man can’t be married as long as I have and not be a romantic.”
Joel’s phone rings and he fishes it from his pocket. “Speak of the angel,” he says, winking and walking away to answer Kimberley’s call.
I turn my attention away from the arch and to my burn machine. Settling in, I create three sets of coasters, each one distinctly different designs. One geometric, one floral, and the other a monogram. I use Avery’s initials.
AWR
According to her manuscript and the title page, we no longer share a last name, but I’m being hardheaded.
