I put my hand over hers on the fence rail. She turned her hand over and I threaded my fingers through hers.
"That works for me," I said.
Pancake ambled forward and lowered his head to the grass near the post, taking his time the way he took his time about everything. Jules watched him for a moment—that particular quiet she had when she was letting something be what it was—and then she lifted the camera with her free hand, easy and unhurried, and got three frames.
I didn't move my hand.
"He's very photogenic," she said, after the third frame.
"Don't tell him. He's already impossible about it."
She laughed, and I stood there in the morning with her hand in mine and a retired draft horse eating grass like none of this was any of his business, and thought: that'll do.
The walk back passed MeeMaw's old homestead.
MeeMaw was on the homestead porch in her rocking chair.
"Well," she said, "that was the best wedding I've been to since my own." She stood up. "I'm going to go sit by my pool with a margarita and a filthy book and let y'all figure out the rest yourselves."
The van pulled onto the gravel at two o'clock. Jules's gear was on the porch. One of the catering crew helped with the big case. I carried the camera bag. Jules let me.
She did a final check out of habit, then stood on the top step and looked at the drive, the live oaks, the ranch house in the afternoon light. I didn't rush her.
She turned.
There wasn't much left to say that the pasture hadn't covered. I stepped up on the top step beside her.
I kissed her—my hand at her jaw, her hands coming up to my chest, and for a moment I had her exactly where she'd been since Saturday night, close enough to feel her breathe. Her hands stopped being careful about my shirt, and I let it run until one of us had some sense about the gravel and the catering crew standing twenty feet away.
She pulled back. Her face had the open, unmanaged look she'd been showing me since FiFi took out the wedding cake.
"I know where to find you," she said.
"You do," I said.
She got in the van. The door slid shut. Through the window she lifted a hand. I raised mine.
The van turned at the end of the drive. The live oaks closed around it.
Sarge was at the gate. He'd planted himself there when the gear went out and hadn't moved since, watching the road with the focused patience of a dog who took his responsibilities seriously.
He'd assigned himself to Jules the same afternoon she'd stepped off the van, and he was still at it. I crouched down besidehim and put a hand between his ears. He didn't look at me. His eyes were on the road where the van had gone.
"She's coming back," I said. "Give it time."
Sarge stayed on the road. I took that for agreement.
The dust was settling back down on the gravel.
I walked back to the fence.
I leaned on the rail and watched the live oaks. Pancake was at my elbow doing what he does. The van had been gone forty-five minutes. New York was three hours and fourteen hundred miles north. And I was already counting the days until she came back.
Epilogue
Jules
THANKSGIVING WAS THURSDAYat The Last Resort — MeeMaw, Bobbie-Jean, Stoney, both families, every fur baby within a hundred mile radius of the property. I had promised to bring a pie, which meant I had until Wednesday night to figure out how to make one.
