Page 7 of Broken Cedar

The kitchen is an aftermath zone when I head inside—counters covered with the detritus of feeding a small army, sinks full of dishes, the lingering smell of ham and coffee and something sweet I can’t place. Mom is at the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. She looks exhausted. I rub my hand over her back in small circles, and she smiles up at me.

Colt comes in through the back door. He pours himself a glass of water at the sink and drinks it in three long pulls, his throat working, and I watch the line of his jaw and the movement of his Adam’s apple and have to look away.

“Quite a day,” I say to break the silence.

“Quite a day,” Mom agrees. Her voice is soft, worn at the edges. Her fingers idly trace the rim of her mug.

“It was good,” is all Colt says.

I nod. “It was.”

We sit at the table. The three of us. Mom between us, her hands around her tea, her eyes moving from my face to Colt’s and back again. She doesn’t say what she’s thinking. She just quietly finishes her tea and sets the mug in the sink. She runs a hand through her hair, loosening the ponytail. The lines around her eyes are deeper than they were this morning.

“I’m going to go lie down,” she says softly. “Just for a bit. My feet are having words with me about all those porch steps.”

We both nod. Colt says, “We’ll finish up out here.”

She touches his shoulder as she passes, then she touches mine. Then she’s gone, down the hallway, her footsteps fading toward her bedroom door.

And then it’s just the two of us.

Neither of us moves for a moment. The kitchen suddenly feels too quiet after a day full of voices. Colt reaches for a stack of plates at the sink. I pick up the tea mugs. The only sounds are the soft run of water and the creak of the old pipes.

“That story about teaching you to back the trailer…” I say, when it’s clear he’s not going to say anything.

Colt shakes his head, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips. “He left out the best bit.”

I look up. “What?”

Colt sets a glass in the rack and picks up another. “I hit the barn.”

A laugh catches in my throat. “…You what?”

Colt nods. “Bent the hitch.”

I frown. “You never told me that.”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth giving him away. “Dad fixed it before you got home.”

A burst of laughter escapes me. Colt smiles, and I smile back.

“He’d be embarrassed by today,” Colt says softly. “He hated attention.” He sets the glass in the dish rack, dries his hands on a towel, and reaches for his hat on the hook. He puts it on, adjusting the brim.

“We should finish cleaning up,” I say softly. “While Mom rests.”

He nods, and together we carry dishes from the porch to the kitchen. Then coolers need emptying, ice needs dumping, tablecloths need shaking free of crumbs. The work is mindless and physical and exactly what both of us need—something to do with our hands while our mouths remember how to talk to each other.

Colt hands me a container of deviled eggs, and I set it in the refrigerator with the last of the leftovers, closing the door. The kitchen is clean, or clean enough. For the first time all day, there is nothing left to do. No dishes waiting in the sink. No coolers to empty. No chairs to carry. No reason to keep moving.

Colt looks around the kitchen, then toward the back door. “Guess that’s everything.”

“Looks like it.” The words hang there.

He shifts his weight, adjusting the brim of his hat. “I should let you get some sleep.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us moves. The refrigerator hums quietly behind me. Somewhere down the hall, the house settles, old wood creaking beneath the weight of a hundred years of memories. I look around the kitchen, almost hoping to find something else that needs doing. Anything. My eyes land on a serving spoon sitting beside the sink. “Oh.”