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Wren was too shocked to respond. Mrs. Ferguson slid across the bench seat to take the wheel while her son put on a medical-grade mask, latex gloves, and a painter’s paper suit. Wren drove with the heat blasting and the windows down all the way to Schuywich, the man he loved slumped in the passenger seat with a blanket tucked tight around him. Back at the house, Mrs. Ferguson shouted from across the lawn that Eric should sleep on the couch and use the bathroom downstairs. She claimed the kitchen as her domain, said she’d use the side door to come and go, the back stairs to reach her bedroom. “We’ll make the dining room into one of them, what are they called? Hermeneutic chambers, like in a space movie. You’ll keep the pocket doors closed, and I’ll put on a damn mask before I come through from the kitchen. I’ll set your food out on the table and pick up your dishes, then I’ll ring a bell when I leave to give you the all clear. Now, you’ve got to keep yourself safe, too, Warren, but you don’t need me to figure that out for you.”

Recounting the story in my dining room, Wren’s eyebrows lift in amazement. “My mother must have been thinking it through the whole time she was following us home. It worked, too. Neither of us caught Covid from Eric. He swears it was my mom’s garlic potato soup that broke his fever, and he credits her elderberry tea with curing his cough. He started testing negative a few days ago, but he’s still exhausted and dizzy. He says his head hurts so much he can’t think straight.”

“He’s lucky he’s alive,” I whisper, comparing Wren’s rescue of Eric to my abandonment of David.

“I know, honey,” Wren says, his voice soft. “So does he. Now, how are you doing?”

“I finished teaching my classes, but I’m still working on the kitchen.”

“I didn’t ask what you were up to.” Wren frowns. “I asked how are you.”

“Keeping to myself, mostly,” I sigh. “The truth is, I was so upset after Joe killed my bees, I couldn’t deal with seeing anyone for a while.”

“Those bees stung me, too,” Wren says, touching his cheek. “I can’t believe he poisoned the whole hive in revenge.”

“What an asshole, right? Nancy claimed he was just being helpful when I went over to their house and called Joe a murderer.”

“Oh, no. Did you really?”

“Not my finest moment, but I was furious. Why?”

“Well, there was something on the news a while back about guns and suicide that caught my mother’s attention. I thought she was about to spout some NRA crap at me, but instead it reminded her about a Schuywich boy who shot himself with a gun his brother gave him. Turns out, the boy was Joe’s little brother, Jimmy.”

My heart clenches. “Wait, what? When did that happen?”

“After Joe got back from Vietnam.”

“Oh, no,” I moan. “Evelyn wrote a column about a boy who shot himself, but I had no idea she was talking about Joe’s brother.”

“My mother said Joe felt awfully guilty about it.”

Shame washes over me as I recall the expression on Joe’s face when I called him a murderer and Nancy’s anger when she said I wasn’t the only one who knew about loss. More regret is not something I can deal with right now, though. To change the subject, I ask how Mrs. Ferguson and Eric have been getting along, now that he’s no longer infectious.

Wren scoffs. “Eric’s like the son she never had. The two of them spent all day yesterday on the couch watching the Hallmark channel together. It’s better than Fox News, but I’m glad I have my store to escape to.”

“Are you still on track to open in the spring?”

“Summer’s more likely. It’s a tremendous amount of work. I want the whole place to be elegant, like your living room used to be before you turned it into the set of This Old House. Speaking of which, when can I see this kitchen of yours?”

For the first time in months, my mask hides a genuine smile. “The counter came yesterday. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Wren follows me into the kitchen. “Oh, wow, Audrey. I can’t believe you did this all by yourself.”

“I learned a lot from being my dad’s apprentice,” I say.

“I know.” Wren’s eyes soften. “I read your book. It made me really sad.”

“Sorry about that,” I say, embarrassed and proud at the same time.

Wren waves away my humblebrag. “Anyway, you have a terrific eye for design. I never realized the room was this big.”

Happy to be talking about the kitchen again, I say, “It’s fifteen by twenty-five, but between that stupid pantry and how the old counter stuck out from the wall, it felt so chopped up.”

“I didn’t remember there being so many windows.”

“There were always three on both sides, but one was hidden in the pantry, and one was covered up behind the stove. Instead of wall cabinets, I put all the storage in the center island, along with the sink and dishwasher, too.”

Wren walks around the island, opening drawers and admiring the soapstone. “This slab is fantastic, but the maple looks washed out against those pumpkin floors.”