It was quite late when she’d finished reading that last letter to him. The level in the bottle was considerably lower, but they hadn’t killed it. She plunked the last envelope down on the stack and they were quiet. Ian sniffed quietly once or twice, then wiped impatiently at his eyes.

Finally Marcie said, “I might need an escort to the loo. I’m a little drunk.”

It broke through his sadness, changing his mood yet again. “You think?” he asked, smiling.

“Well, I don’t exactly have your height and girth. And I’m a small drinker—couple of beers or wines or fruity things. Truth is, I’m worried about standing up….”

He laughed at her. “No one held you down and poured it down your neck.”

“It’s awful reading letters you’ve written. All the bad sentences, terrible spelling, stupid remarks…I bet when you go to hell, they just read every letter you ever wrote out loud.”

He chuckled and stood. He said, “Come on, lightweight, I’ll take you out.” But what he thought was, they were beautiful letters. If he’d actually read them, they might have helped him get his head straight a little quicker. The one thing he’d been missing in his life—someone who cared about him—she’d offered him a long time ago.

He walked her to the outhouse, stood outside while she took her turn, then escorted her back to the cabin before making his run. She flopped on the couch and rolled over on her side without taking her boots off, without pulling up the quilt. He shook his head at her. “You’re going to sleep good.” Then he pulled her boots off and covered her.

“Hmm. That’s the last time you get me drunk, Buchanan.”

“Like I said, I didn’t hold you down.”

“I sense a problem. I got real used to the taste.” And then she hiccupped.

“I’ll be gone when you come out of it,” he reminded her. “I’ve got some wood to deliver in the morning.”

“Right. Yeah, I know that. Do I still have my library books?”

“You think I could get to the library in the hour you were gone today?”

“Oh, never mind. Good night, my sweet bear.”

Oh, God, how that made his heart swell and lurch. Before he could stop himself, he bent his lips to her temple and placed a soft kiss there. Her hand came up, stroked his hairy face, and she hummed. “The only problem with this is that I can hardly tell when you smile. I so love it when you smile.”

“Good night, lightweight.”

While Marcie slept the sleep of the drunk, Ian paged through the album of baseball cards. He imagined Bobby’s fingers on every one. Tears ran out of his eyes, washing the remorse and pain out of his soul. She might never know how much this simple gift meant.

Twelve

W hen Marcie finally opened her eyes, there was a marching band on parade in her head—a dull thumping that seemed to have a beat. Whoa. She’d sipped her way through twelve or fourteen letters. Bad idea. But she knew where Ian kept the aspirin.

She sat up carefully. The room was in order, as Ian always left it. Even the letters were tucked away; the baseball card album still on the table where she’d left it. The coffeepot rested on the woodstove, which needed a couple of logs. She fed the stove first, then put on her boots and took a trip out back, and when she returned she just about chugged the thick, black coffee even though it wasn’t quite hot enough. A glance at her watch told her that Ian wouldn’t be back for a while, and having now learned the ways of stoves, she decided to take advantage of his absence to freshen up. She heated the water for her hair first, then the tub. Then she went through the tedious process of emptying the tub, which was more trouble than filling it. By the time she was done with all that, she was actually tired, which had more to do with staying up late and drinking than the flu. In fact, she had hardly coughed at all.

After washing her hair and bathing, she took her manicure scissors to her damaged bangs and managed to snip away the charred ends, combing it into some order. Her small makeup mirror showed she had a slight, healthy glow; the burn was healed, or nearly so. She applied a little makeup, something she hadn’t bothered with since arriving. But she’d forced her presence on Ian over and over again—it wouldn’t hurt to be presentable. She gave some attention to her eyes, lined her lips. She opened one of those cans of stew, ate about half, then she settled on the couch with her book, a new woman.

Without warning, the new woman vanished. Suddenly she knew—it was a year ago today. Funny, she hadn’t thought of that even once while she was reading through all those letters—not even the one with the date of Bobby’s passing in it. December 17, a week before Christmas.

It had been a very odd experience. Once she’d known Bobby was gone, she stayed right where she was, holding him. She didn’t cry; she didn’t call for a nurse or aide. And while she held him she communicated with her heart, telling him to be happy where he was. It was at least an hour before anyone came into the room—a sixty-year-old nurse’s aide, bringing around linens for the morning shift. “You’re here late,” the woman said.

And Marcie was stroking Bobby’s cheek, running her fingers through his hair, holding him close. She didn’t respond. She knew once she let go of him this time, she wouldn’t be able to hold him again. Something about the way she was touching him must have tipped off the aide because she came over to the bed and put her fingers to Bobby’s neck. “Mrs. Sullivan,” she said gently.

“I know. I’m having a little trouble letting go…” Marcie murmured.

“I understand. I’ll call someone for you. That usually helps. Someone will come and—”

“Could you put that off for just a little while? Could you give me just a little more time with him?”

“I’ll finish my rounds with the linens and then I’ll have the charge nurse make a call. Would you like it to be to his parents? Or maybe to your sister?”

“Call his parents,” she said. “They should be the first to know. Then would you please call Erin?”

“Sure.” Then she smiled sweetly and gave Marcie’s brow a loving stroke. Surely she’d seen every bizarre reaction to death in this place. “Take your time here. Take all the time you need.”

And when the aide left the room, Marcie had picked up the book she’d been reading to Bobby and continued to read. She read aloud to him for almost another hour—his body had grown cool to the touch. He was so completely lifeless, it rather amazed her. She would have thought there wouldn’t be much change in him, in his body, since he was so still even when he was alive, but the change in him was remarkable. She had never sensed tension in him until he passed, and then a complete relaxation settled over his facial features and he looked positively beautiful. Ethereal. Complete peace took over. And then he became so quiet. Cool. Hard. Still. Gone.

Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan came into the room and rushed to her. They found her with Bobby in her arms, the book open on her lap. “Marcie? What are you doing?”

“I wasn’t ready to leave him,” she said softly, her voice clear, her eyes dry.

“She’s in shock,” Mrs. Sullivan said to her husband. “We should call the—”

“I’m not in shock,” Marcie said. Then she laughed lightly. “Good Lord, I’ve been expecting this for three years. But now it’s here, I know I won’t touch him again and I’m having a little trouble giving him up….”

The book was pulled out of her hands, she was drawn off the bed, to her feet, away from him. His parents kissed him goodbye and the sheet was pulled over him. Marcie went to him and pulled the sheet back. There was no reason to hide him—he looked as if he was asleep. She smoothed back his soft, dark hair.

“Marcie, the mortuary was called. They’ll be here soon.”

“I’m in no hurry,” she said. It wasn’t as though there were decisions to make—all the arrangements had been made a couple of years before. They’d take him away, he’d be cremated and there would be a memorial for him. But until they took him, wasn’t he still hers?

“He belongs to a higher authority now.” It was her sister’s voice. “You can let go of him without the slightest worry. He’s in good hands.”

“Did I say that out loud?” Marcie asked. “Did I?”

“Say what, sweetheart?”

“That until the funeral people came for him, he was still mine?”

“No, baby. You didn’t say anything. I could tell, that’s all.”

“I just want to be close to him until they come….”

“We can stay here, just like this, as long as you like. To hell with funeral people. They can wait.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, sitting again on the bed. She touched him, kissed his cheek and brow, whispered to him. Her in-laws thought she was losing it, but Erin held them off. Marcie heard Erin in the hall outside the room. “Cut her some slack. It’s a lot to give up. She’ll be fine.”

And when they came to take Bobby away, Marcie gave him one last kiss and let him go. Then she embraced her in-laws, told them she was sorry for their loss, and went home.

She felt tears on her cheeks, but she didn’t feel pain. Just that loneliness that sometimes plagued her. That sense of no longer being attached to Bobby, a feeling of having no purpose.

It was another hour before Ian came home. And when he walked in, she knew what had taken him so long. His hair and beard were dramatically sheared, clipped short and neatly trimmed. He had grocery sacks in his arms. He tried not to, but it was obvious, he was smiling.

“Ian!”

“It’s me. You expecting someone else?”

She looked up at him and forgot everything. “What have you done?”

He walked straight to the table and put down his sacks. “I have more stuff to get, so sit tight.” And he left the cabin again. When he returned with a couple of boxes stacked high on top of each other, she was sitting in the same place. He put those on the table, as well. Then he finally turned toward her, letting her look him over. She stood and took slow steps toward him and her hand rose to touch his cheek. Where there had been a good five or six inches of bushy beard was now less than a half inch of brownish-red beard, combed into place, soft as down. Even his neck was shaved.

“Where is my wilderness lunatic?”

He frowned at her and touched her cheek gently. “Have you been crying?”

She glanced away. “I’m sorry. I had one of those days.”

He put his thumb and forefinger on her chin and pulled her eyes back to his. “What’s up?” he asked softly. “Need to talk about it?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I know you don’t want to—”

“It’s okay. What made you cry? Homesick? Lonesome?”

She took a deep breath. “It was a year ago today. Snuck up on me, I guess.”

“Ah,” he said. He put his big arms around her. “That would make some tears, I guess. I’m sorry, Marcie. I’m sure it still hurts sometimes.”

“That’s just it—it doesn’t exactly hurt. It’s just that I feel so useless.” She leaned against him. “Sometimes I feel all alone. I have lots of people in my life and can still feel so alone without Bobby.” She laughed softly. “And God knows, he wasn’t much company.”

He tightened his embrace. “I think I understand.”

Yeah, she thought, he might. Here was a guy who was around people regularly, yet completely unconnected to them. She pulled away and asked, “Why did you do this?”

“I thought I could clean up a little and take you somewhere.”