Walker said, approvingly. It doesn’t look like it’s going to fall down anymore, he thought, but didn’t say .
But Allie only shrugged and started to get out of the truck.
“Hey, before you go,” he said, quickly. “I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?” she asked, turning to face him.
“For asking you about your husband when we met at Pearl’s. That was rude. It was none of my business.”
She looked away from him, out the passenger-side window, but otherwise said nothing. He got the sense that she was trying, somehow, to compose herself. A breeze blew outside, stirring the trees and changing the dappled shadings of the sun that played over both of them in the truck.
Finally, he heard her exhale. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “You couldn’t have known.” And then, turning to him with a rueful little sigh, she said, “I knew I was right about how quickly gossip traveled in Butternut.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Walker said, frowning. “Caroline told me about it because she thought you and Wyatt might need help.”
“What kind of help?” she asked him, warily, not taking her eyes off him. And her eyes were beautiful, he thought. Like mosaics, with little chips of light brown and green intermingled in them.
“I think what Caroline meant,” he said, carefully, “is that the two of you might need a neighbor some time. A real neighbor. Why she thought I could be that person, I don’t know. I don’t have any practice at it.” Unless, of course, you counted the fling he’d had with the flight attendant who lived next door to him in his condominium complex in Minneapolis. And he didn’t count it.
“I appreciate Caroline’s concern,” she said now. “I really do. But I didn’t move here for the whole ‘small town experience.’ I moved here for the privacy.”
“I can understand that,” he said. Nobody valued privacy more than he did. But she and her son’s circumstances were different from his own.
“But what about your son, Wyatt?” he asked, gently. “Does he need privacy, too?”
She flushed. And there was an edge of anger in her voice when she spoke again. “Wyatt is doing just fine, thank you. And I think I’m probably the best judge of what he does or doesn’t need.” She paused, then asked, coolly, “Do you have any children?”
“No,” he said, feeling a twist of pain in his gut. Its sharpness surprised him. “No, I’m not a father,” he heard himself say.
“Then you probably don’t know a lot about raising children.”
That was harsh, he thought. Harsh , but fair.
“You’re right. I don’t know anything about kids,” he said, abruptly. Then he leaned over her and opened the passenger-side door. He knew it was a rude thing to do, but he didn’t really care.
Allie didn’t move, though. And when she spoke again, her tone was gentler. “Look, I know you mean well. Everybody means well. But nobody really understands. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m not the first person to lose a husband to a war. And I won’t be the last. There are plenty of military widows out there. But they’re not usually the people giving me advice. Or claiming to understand how I feel. Or trying to be ‘helpful.’ ”
“You say helpful like it’s a dirty word,” he observed.
She smiled another one of her almost smiles. “No, ‘helpful’ is all right,” she said. “Assuming that you want to be helped.”
“Instead of just being left alone?” he supplied.
She looked thoughtful. “Sometimes, yes.”
He thought about what she’d said. He didn’t know why, but it bothered him. Which was strange, when you considered how much he’d wanted to be left alone over the last couple of years.
“Look,” he said, “I can’t speak for everyone in Butternut. But I can speak for myself. And I’ll try to leave you alone. Usually, it’s something I’m very good at doing. Leaving people alone, I mean. You might even say it’s a specialty of mine.”
She
But Allie only shrugged and started to get out of the truck.
“Hey, before you go,” he said, quickly. “I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?” she asked, turning to face him.
“For asking you about your husband when we met at Pearl’s. That was rude. It was none of my business.”
She looked away from him, out the passenger-side window, but otherwise said nothing. He got the sense that she was trying, somehow, to compose herself. A breeze blew outside, stirring the trees and changing the dappled shadings of the sun that played over both of them in the truck.
Finally, he heard her exhale. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “You couldn’t have known.” And then, turning to him with a rueful little sigh, she said, “I knew I was right about how quickly gossip traveled in Butternut.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Walker said, frowning. “Caroline told me about it because she thought you and Wyatt might need help.”
“What kind of help?” she asked him, warily, not taking her eyes off him. And her eyes were beautiful, he thought. Like mosaics, with little chips of light brown and green intermingled in them.
“I think what Caroline meant,” he said, carefully, “is that the two of you might need a neighbor some time. A real neighbor. Why she thought I could be that person, I don’t know. I don’t have any practice at it.” Unless, of course, you counted the fling he’d had with the flight attendant who lived next door to him in his condominium complex in Minneapolis. And he didn’t count it.
“I appreciate Caroline’s concern,” she said now. “I really do. But I didn’t move here for the whole ‘small town experience.’ I moved here for the privacy.”
“I can understand that,” he said. Nobody valued privacy more than he did. But she and her son’s circumstances were different from his own.
“But what about your son, Wyatt?” he asked, gently. “Does he need privacy, too?”
She flushed. And there was an edge of anger in her voice when she spoke again. “Wyatt is doing just fine, thank you. And I think I’m probably the best judge of what he does or doesn’t need.” She paused, then asked, coolly, “Do you have any children?”
“No,” he said, feeling a twist of pain in his gut. Its sharpness surprised him. “No, I’m not a father,” he heard himself say.
“Then you probably don’t know a lot about raising children.”
That was harsh, he thought. Harsh , but fair.
“You’re right. I don’t know anything about kids,” he said, abruptly. Then he leaned over her and opened the passenger-side door. He knew it was a rude thing to do, but he didn’t really care.
Allie didn’t move, though. And when she spoke again, her tone was gentler. “Look, I know you mean well. Everybody means well. But nobody really understands. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m not the first person to lose a husband to a war. And I won’t be the last. There are plenty of military widows out there. But they’re not usually the people giving me advice. Or claiming to understand how I feel. Or trying to be ‘helpful.’ ”
“You say helpful like it’s a dirty word,” he observed.
She smiled another one of her almost smiles. “No, ‘helpful’ is all right,” she said. “Assuming that you want to be helped.”
“Instead of just being left alone?” he supplied.
She looked thoughtful. “Sometimes, yes.”
He thought about what she’d said. He didn’t know why, but it bothered him. Which was strange, when you considered how much he’d wanted to be left alone over the last couple of years.
“Look,” he said, “I can’t speak for everyone in Butternut. But I can speak for myself. And I’ll try to leave you alone. Usually, it’s something I’m very good at doing. Leaving people alone, I mean. You might even say it’s a specialty of mine.”
She
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