Candy shakes her head, smiling a little. "You and the Hayes men sure do like to take the whole world on your shoulders."
I blink up at her. "You think I'm one of them?"
"I think," she says, "you care about that man and that family like you've been one of them all along. And that counts for something."
I open my mouth, but she changes the subject before I can answer. "Now stop worrying and take your break. You look like you've been holding your breath since sunrise."
"I probably have," I grumble.
She grins. "Good thing I've got a cure for that."
I frown. "What kind of cure?"
"The kind that comes with music," she says. "There's a dance at the hall tomorrow night. Live band, good food, even better company. You're coming."
I laugh before I can help it. "Candy, I can't."
"Sure, you can."
"I don't have anything to wear."
"I've got a closet full of things that'll fit just fine," she says. "And if you don't come for the dancing, come for the pie. Austin has got a new recipe she's too proud of. North and my dad can take Emma for the night. You know she’ll love helping with the evening chores."
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. "You're not going to give up, are you?"
"Not a chance."
Before I can protest again, the bell over the front door rings. A few women from town step inside, chatting low as they head for the checkout counter. One of them glances my way, then whispers something to the other. They both look at me and smile too sweetly.
Candy's eyes narrow enough to make me feel protected. "I'll take care of these," she says. "Go get some air."
I slip out the back door into the small courtyard behind the library. Sinking onto the bench under the oak tree, I press my palms together.
I should feel proud. I'm working again, Emma's happy, the cabin is safe and clean. But inside, I feel like a glass that's been dropped and glued back together—holding shape, but never quite whole.
Later that night Emma is sitting on the porch steps, drawing with chalk as I make dinner. Her hair glows in the setting sun, her knees streaked pink from the dust. She comes running in holding a piece of paper. "I drew our house!"
Kneeling beside her, I look at the crooked little outline on the walkway. It's got smoke curling from the chimney and a stickfigure beside it holding what looks like a flower. "It's beautiful," I say.
"That's you," she says, pointing to the figure. "And that's me."
I help her gather the chalk, and she tells me all about her day at school. She's made friends with one of the barn cats that hangs around the playground, hoping for snacks, and named it Pancake. I let her talk until she's giggling, and for a few minutes, everything feels almost normal.
After dinner, when she's in bed, I sit on the porch with a cup of tea and stare out at the trees. The crickets start up, soft and steady. The moon rises slowly. The cabin smells faintly of soap and pine, the air cool against my skin.
It's a good life. It's everything I said I wanted.
So why does it still feel like half of me is missing?
The next afternoon, Candy comes in humming as usual, a stack of returned books under her arm. She drops them on the counter and looks me up and down. "You ready for tonight?"
I blink. "What?"
"The dance," she says, pretending to be scandalized that I could forget. "Jenna's coming by after supper to watch Emma. She asked since they have a horse that just had a baby and wants to show Emma."
"You already arranged it?"
"Of course I did. You'd have found an excuse otherwise."
