There weremany memories I was stamping and cataloging in my brain so I would never, ever forget them.
The sight and sound of Hutch singing and playing, especially the time I first met him, also especially when he sang my song.
The feel of Moxie curling into Tonks that first night we all slept together.
The way Mrs.Matthews grabbed that sourdough out of my hands, and the way her son sat and played with the pups and told me her story.
Hutch making twenty baskets in a row.
Cicely crashed out on her daddy’s wide chest.
When we went for that hike, Stormy swinging his son on his back and looking up at him while Viggo held tight to his dad’s neck, the hardness of life, betrayal and heartbreaking decisions falling away from Stormy’s face as he smiled at his boy.
Ledger beating me at cards.
Emma saying the words “Missa Hutch.”
The sound of Jill’s voice filled with surprise and gratitude when she thanked me for the chair.
Liam concentrating so hard when he and Hutch built that Mos Eisley Cantina out of Lego that night we babysat for Abigail and Brett.
Abigail anytime we got to laughing wherever we were.Behind the counter at The Groove.At Aromacobana.In her kitchen.In mine.
Watching Hutch drag in the tree he cut down so we could decorate it with ornaments I’d cherry-picked out of all the stuff I collected during my forays.
And driving up to our little cabin after a day in the town on Christmas Eve—a cabin you couldn’t see from CR 10 (not even an inch of it)—but still, the Christmas tree with its multitude of twinkling, colored lights was sparking happily into the dark winter night at the front window.
As Hutch drove around to the back to park, I got choked up.
Thirty-one years.
Thirty-one years, and just now, just this very instant, was the first time I arrivedhome.
We got out.
Went in.
Supervised the dogs’ taking care of business.
Got them back in from the cold.
I found Moxie and offered many cuddles as an apology for leaving her with seven puppers all day all by herself while Hutch did the second feeding and then started warming milk on the stove before he built fires in the living room and our bedroom.
And not long later, with empty cocoa mugs on the coffee table, we ended up in jeans, Henleys and wool socks, the Christmas tree and the fire the only illumination in our living room, as we cuddled on a comfy, corduroy couch.
“So spill it,” he said quietly.
He was on his back.I was tucked to his side facing the room with my head on his shoulder.
I lifted my head and looked down at him.
“Spill what?”
“What you were thinking when we drove up to the house.”
The man missed nothing.
“I’ll go first,” he said before I could bare all (again).
