One to Take (One to Hold 8)

“Does it freeze in the winter?”

“I’ve never been there in the winter.”

“It’s so warm… we’ll have to check it out.”

Reaching across the back of the seat, I thread my fingers in the soft waves of her hair. “We can do anything you want.”

Winona has dinner simmering on the stove, and she leaves shortly after we arrive at the house. It feels strange but right to be the man of the house now. In the past, I’ve always been Bill’s right hand, but I was also a guest. Now Mariska and I are making the place our home, and I couldn’t be happier.

We each take bowls and spoon out portions of soft carrots, celery, and potatoes mixed with stew meat in a dark gravy and carry them to the living room to sit in front of the fire. On the way, I open a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from a supply of wine I ordered from Princeton and had delivered.

“I called about starting at UGF this fall,” she says, taking a sip of the deep red liquid. “They said all of my credits would transfer, but they don’t have a graduate degree in fine arts.”

Frustration tightens my chest. I don’t want her to give up anything coming here. “What can we do?”

A little smile, and she sets her glass to the side, placing her hand on top of mine. “They have a course of study in expressive arts therapy, and we discussed working it into a graduate program. It’s very interesting.”

I lift my wine glass, noticing the gleam in her eye as she says it. “Okay… Tell me about it.”

“It uses creative expression to help people heal. It’s a form of counseling and therapy.”

“It sounds like a perfect fit for you.”

“Doesn’t it?” She hops up onto her knees and crawls across the couch to sit on my lap. I put my glass aside and hold her waist. “I can’t wait to learn more about it, and you know what?”

I grin at her girlish enthusiasm. “What?”

“I probably would never have known or even considered it if we hadn’t come here—if I hadn’t transferred my course work, and…” she pauses, and her bottom lip catches in her teeth.

“What else?”

“If we hadn’t gone through everything that happened.” She leans forward, holding my neck. “I’ve always used my art to help me heal. Now I can teach other people to do the same thing.”

Relief spreads through my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, hugging her close. “I’m so happy you found this.” I inhale the jasmine-scent of her hair. “I want you to be as happy and fulfilled here as I am.”

She moves to sit beside me on the couch. “I’ll be happy wherever you are, but now I know we’ve come to the right place for us.”

I smile, and we finish the savory broth, and I watch the fire dance off the gold highlights in her hair. We chat about the coming winter, and she tells me about online course options for when we’re snowed in. I point out she might not get much studying done if we’re snowed in for long, and we laugh.

The light is disappearing fast outside, and the clouds are low, cast in dusky orange and blue. She hops up and goes to the window, a worried look on her face.

“What is it?” I say, watching her.

She looks up at me. “I wanted to visit her…” Her voice is quiet. “Jessica.”

A flash of pain moves across my stomach, but I nod. “We’ve got time before the sun sets.”

Her hand moves into mine, and I open the door, leading her across the porch and down the side steps in the direction of the little thicket behind the trees. I know the way very well, and as we walk, the heaviness in my chest grows.

I knew we would do this sooner or later. I didn’t expect it to be our first night back, and I’m worried how this visit will affect Mariska.

Looking back at her, she seems far away, watching the grass move beneath our feet. The painting of our daughter is packed in our things, trucking across the country on its way to us here. I wonder if she’s thinking of it, of her vision.

When we reach the opening, I see the small headstone placed after she and Amy left. Sylvia was here to help me get it right, and she selected a few clumps of perennial flowers for me to plant on each side of the little monument.

Mariska stops right in front of it and drops to her knees. I kneel behind her as she reaches forward and runs her fingers across the cool marble headstone, tracing the outline of our daughter’s name.

I’m watching her so closely, I see the moment her shoulders break, and I’m right with her, pulling her into my arms. She holds my arms, gripping the fabric of my shirt in her fists as she quietly cries. I blink up to the trees, smoothing my hands down the back of her head to the skin of her soft neck and around her shoulders. I hold her as she releases the last of her grief. It’s another step in the healing process.