Page 35

Four days of carrying this around. Four days of watching him across the breakfast table, his hands on his coffee mug, his mouth twitching at something I said, knowing that inside my body a collection of cells is building toward a person made from both of us.

The front door opens. Boots on hardwood. He comes into the kitchen from the afternoon sun, sleeves rolled, sawdust on his forearms. He's been in the workshop building new crate stacks for tomorrow's festival. Stronger ones, he said. Rated for idiots who climb them.

"Hey." He drops a kiss on my forehead. Takes the coffee I poured. "Tables are set up. Hilda's bringing the barrels at seven tomorrow."

"Same as last year."

"Same as every year." He leans against the counter. Drinks. Watches me over the rim. "You've been quiet today."

"Thinking."

"About?"

"The feature. Diane wants a follow-up. Year two."

"Same farm?"

"Same farm. She wants to expand it. Quarterly issues, longer format. Maybe a book."

His eyebrows rise. "Seriously?"

"A photography book. The farm through the seasons. She thinks there's a market." There is a market. Diane's publisher contact has already expressed interest. But that's not what I'm thinking about. That's the easy news.

"Sounds good," he says. "You should do it."

"I'm going to." My hands are shaking. Slightly, just a tremor in my fingers. I press them flat on the counter. "But there's something else."

His eyes narrow. Not suspicion. Attention. Deck pays attention to me the way he pays attention to his land. Reads the signs. Notices what's shifted.

"Poppy."

"Can we go to the orchard? I want to show you something."

The orchard is where we go when words need space. We've had conversations under these trees that I'll carry for the rest of my life. The night he told me about his grandfather clearing the original acreage with a mule and a hand saw. The morning I told him about my dad, who left when I was three and sent birthday cards for a while, then stopped. The afternoon we decided to get married, sitting on the ground between two Winesap trees, his back against the trunk, my head on his shoulder, his voice steady and simple: "Marry me, Poppy. I don't have a ring yet. Just marry me."

The ring came later. Simple gold band, no stone. His mother's suggestion. I wear it every day.

The light is going amber as we walk between the rows. He's a step behind me, quiet, letting me lead. Patient. Always patient. The man who waits for broken things to tell him their names.

At our tree, the one where he proposed, I stop. Turn.

"Remember when I told you I was looking for something?"

"At the tailgate. First Saturday."

"You asked me what I was looking for. I didn't have an answer."

"I remember."

"I have one now." My hand finds his. Lifts it. Presses his palm flat against my stomach, low, below the navel. Holds it there.

His hand is warm. Still. The calluses press into my skin through the flannel. His flannel, the same one, worn soft at the cuffs, permanent fixture.

For three seconds, nothing. Just his hand on my belly, his eyes on mine, the evening light turning everything gold around us.

Then it lands.

His pupils blow wide. His fingers spread across my stomach. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.