I want her, but not like this. Not if it hurts her, or me. “Let’s give your body more time to recover from the first time.”
“I’m ready.”
I growl. “Trust me on this.”
“Okay. Can I read to you?”
Words fail me, so I nod.
She reads Wendell Berry to me. The words settle into the cabin. I press my mouth to the top of her head, and she keeps reading.
At least we have a few more days before the pass opens.
I never thought I’d enjoy reading next to someone so much. But Rosalind keeps shifting her weight. She must be sore from last night and tired. “It’s time for you to sleep,” I say.
She smiles expectantly. “Are you coming?”
“Soon.” I hand her one of my shirts to wear, tuck her into my bed, and kiss her forehead. I watch her until she falls asleep. Then I let Spool take over and go to the kitchen table.
That piece of aspen calls to me. I get it, then I pull out my carving knife. The smooth wood in my hand feels like old strength returning. Using a skill I haven’t touched in four years, I round the corners and smooth the edges with fine-grit sandpaper from the toolbox. On one side, I carve a small open book. Two lines for the spine. Rectangles for the pages.
My hand slips. I catch myself before I cut too deep. The blade glints. I haven’t been this careful with wood in years.
An hour later, I hold the finger-long piece of pale wood, a book etched into one side. Only she will know what this is.
I leave the toolbox open.
My fingertips brush the chisels, a touch I haven’t allowed myself in four years. I look at the kitchen counter where the trim snapped off. A rough edge I’ve left for three winters.
My hand twitches as I imagine the precise angle of the cut needed to fix it. Not tonight, though. I don’t want to wake her.
I slip into bed with Rosalind. I want to watch her sleep, but tomorrow demands I close my eyes.
In the morning, I place the bookmark on her pillow while she’s still sleeping. I can’t watch her find it.
Rosalind and the bookmark fill my thoughts all day. I arrive home at dusk, and she’s on the couch with the bookmark pressed to her chest, both hands wrapped around it, her eyes closed.
I stand in the doorway.
She holds the piece of wood with a reverence that shatters me, making my hands tremble. I remove my boots and jacket, then go to the kitchen. Pour water. Stand at the sink until my hands stop shaking.
Dad carved Mom a birch comb for their first anniversary. She left with it.
I carved a bookmark for Rosalind.
I dry my hands on a dish towel, walk into the living room, and watch her hold the bookmark. She opens her eyes, and her face changes.
Her smile burns into my memory.
She bounds to her feet and launches herself into my arms. “Thank you. I love this bookmark.”
An unfamiliar warmth spreads like ice melting inside me. “Figured a reader might have some use for it.”
“I love it.”
I tower over her, but I still straighten. “Good.” My lips twitch, but I hold it back.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
