I make the bed, pausing again at the framed photo of Taylor on my dresser; it's one of my favorite photos of her, taken on a camping trip to Denali Park about five years ago.White-capped mountains form a dramatic backdrop behind her, blue skies dotted with puffs of white cloud.She's got a white wool beanie on, her hair unbound under it and draped down her spine.
I pick up the photo, at war with myself over it.Hiding it feels like a betrayal.But…
I hear a car door slam closed outside and bring the photo out into the living area; I place it on the mantle beside another photo of her, Noel, and me, taken the day Noel got drafted by the SkyHawks; he's wearing a SkyHawks ballcap and holding the jersey with his name and number on it, grinning ear to ear.God, so young.He wasn't even eighteen and fresh-faced, barely needing to shave, yet taking the ice against grown men twice his age.Taylor and I were more nervous for his first game than he was, I think.We watched with our faces literally pressed against the glass the whole time he was on the ice, praying our baby boy wouldn't get pasted by some hulking, overzealous, mouth-breathing D-line enforcer.He made it through the game without injury and even got a beautiful pass assist that made the highlight reels that night.
The sound of knuckles rapping on glass startles me, and I realize I've spaced out, thinking about Taylor and Noel and hockey.
I hustle to the door and drag it open."C'mon in."
As she steps past me, I get a whiff of her—vanilla and citrus.She stops just inside and takes in the living area: a worn, brown-leather sectional around a live-edge oak coffee table handmade for us by Taylor's grandfather, my beloved, battered, suede easy chair, the river rock fireplace with a gas insert, and a mantle made from the central support beam of an old nineteenth-century barn.The cream rug with the royal blue arabesque pattern, chosen by Taylor because the shade of the pattern is, apparently, the same shade as my eyes.
"Beautiful home, Noah."Her gaze goes to the artwork on the walls—a pair of Athabascan beadwork moccasins, a trio of soapstone carvings, reprints of Georgia O'Keeffe paintings, and Ansel Adams landscapes."The artwork, my god."She wanders to moccasins."These are stunning."
"Taylor's roommate in college was Athabascan.She gave those to Taylor as a wedding present."
Morgan scans the room again."You can really get a sense of who she was just by her style."Her eyes widen."Noah, I—"
"It's okay.It's okay, Morgan."I take her hand."You're right.Taylor's thumbprint is all over this place.It's in everything.She had an incredible sense of style."
"I just…I didn't mean to—" she shrugs."I don't know what I'm trying to say."
"I do.And it's okay to talk about her.I may get a little emotional, but if you can handle that, so can I."
"No matter what happens between us or not, Noah, she's an integral part of who you are.I want to…acknowledge that, I guess.Honor it—honor her.Does that make sense?"
"Of course it does, and I can't tell you how glad I am that you're willing to approach it like that."
"I just don't want you to feel like you have to tiptoe around the subject with me.She was and is a huge part of your life.”
I let her peruse the rest of the main living area; she spends a good deal of time at the bookshelf beside the fireplace, head tilted to one side as she scans the titles—Taylor and I were both eclectic readers, so there's a little bit of everything, ranging from biographies and histories to sci-fi and romance and airport thrillers.
"So, you wanted to try the chili, huh?"
She pulls away from the shelf and takes a seat at the island, hanging her purse by the strap from the chair-back."Absolutely.A multi-generational recipe is a must-try."
I ladle her bowl, and while she's adding her toppings, I snag the recipe card from the cookbook stand and hand it to her.
Her eyes widen as if it's a national treasure."Wow, look at this—so cool.Your grandmother's handwriting?"
I nod."Yup.According to family lore, my Grandma Irene tinkered with that recipe for twenty years before she committed it to writing."
She takes a bite, then, handing me the card back, her eyes go even wider."Holy shit."She covers her mouth with a hand, laughing."I mean, it's just chili, butmy god, it's so good."
"Right?I wish I could explain what it is, but I'm not enough of a chef for that.It's just damn good chili."I sit beside her."I'd eat with you, but I demolished two bowls already."
She shakes her head."It's fine.Thank you for sharing."
"I'm glad you called."
She smiles at me over her spoon."It's good to see you.I…I’m…” she shakes her head, evidently unable to squeeze the word out past her nerves.
"Morgan, you don't have to…force anything."
"I just…I get these ideas.These feelings.They come in a rush, and I act on them, and then when I get there, I panic and freak out."She finishes eating and slides her bowl away.
"More?"I ask, gesturing at the crock pot.
"No, thank you.I'm full."She grabs a paper napkin from the wooden holder full of them on the counter in the middle of the island."Does…does that make any sense at all?"
