Beans and cornbread, she said. As opposed to the dried situation we've both been living on since December. That is actual food, he said, and sat. They ate at the table she had built across from each other with young Henry in the high chair Amos had brought over in February. Built himself.
The joinery too careful to have been bought. The spring light came through the glass window and the creek ran outside, and the uncomplicated fact of two people eating a meal together after a long winter settled around them like something earned. I want to add a room, she said. He looked up on the west side. Not this year, maybe.
But I've been thinking about the design. Henry will need space eventually and I could use a proper workroom for the sewing. I've been doing it at the kitchen table. I'll help, he said. I know you will, she said.
I'm telling you the design first. I want to show you what I'm thinking before anyone picks up a tool. All right, he said. Show me. She spread the drawing on the table between their plates.
The west wall as shared wall, the room extending 15 ft out. A second window on the south face, a separate exterior door. He looked at it for a long time. The foundation on that side, he said, pointing. The ground slopes away.
You'll need to go deeper than the main cabin. He told her about stone pier foundations, about a mason he knew who worked summers in the territory. His name is Albi, Amos said. And he will tell you that himself within 3 minutes of meeting you. She almost smiled.
We can start excavation in May, he said. Give the ground time to dry. She agreed. He folded the drawing along its lines and handed it back and their hands were close on the table and neither moved immediately. I want to say something, he said.
She waited. I spent 7 years after Beth died making the ranch bigger, he said. More land, more cattle, more men, more everything. I thought if I built it large enough, it would start to feel like it meant something again. He looked at the table.