She had not let herself expect anything beyond that. But standing in the kitchen of Holloway Ranch in the quiet afternoon with the sound of the house settling around her and the smell of the herb garden coming through the window she'd cracked open, she understood that something had shifted. Not just in Sam who had decided her fate in his own 6-year-old court without appeal. In the house itself. In the particular way Mabel just said sit down and then, against every instinct she'd built in 3 years, sat.
In Ethan's face when she'd told him Sam would be fine. In James' quiet nod across the breakfast table. In Nate standing at the counter not leaving, just staying for 5 minutes longer than he usually did. She made Sam a bowl of oatmeal with honey and brought it upstairs. She did not let herself think too far ahead.
That was a lesson her life had taught her at considerable cost, that the future would arrive whether you worried about it or not, and the present was always asking for your full attention. The present was a sick boy who was now sitting up and demanding oatmeal. That was enough. Three days later, when Sam was fully recovered and louder than anyone had a right to be after a serious illness, Ethan came into the kitchen while Clara was preparing supper. He stood in the doorway for a moment.
Can I draw something in here? He said. I just need somewhere with light. She looked at him. His sketchbook was under his arm, slightly worn now from use.
The table's free, she said. He sat at the table and opened his sketchbook and began to draw. He worked for 20 minutes, quiet, while she prepared the meal, and she did not comment on his presence, and he did not comment on hers, and it was one of the most companionable silences she had experienced in months. When she put a glass of water near him, he did not look up. Thank you, he said.
You're welcome, she said. He turned the sketchbook slightly. She glanced at it without meaning to, and then stopped. He was drawing the kitchen. Specifically, he was drawing her in the kitchen from the back, the way you see someone when they don't know they're being looked at.
She was at the stove. The light was coming through the window. It was recognizable immediately and rendered with the careful observation of someone who had been paying close attention for weeks. She did not say anything about it. He closed the book when he finished and stood.
Supper smells good, he said. Thank you, she said. He left. She stood in the kitchen and She had just been given something that cost him considerably more than it appeared to, that a boy who had stopped making things visible had made her visible. Which meant he had decided she was worth the risk of looking at directly.
She turned back to the stove. The meal was almost ready. She heard Nate at the back door, the familiar sound of his boots, and then he was in the kitchen, and he stopped when he smelled what was cooking. That's, he said, and then stopped. Rosemary chicken, she said.