She wasn't ready to participate or she told herself she wasn't ready which was its own kind of answer about what was happening but she watched and she noticed that Bramwell Concaid was a man who listened more than he spoke who changed his mind when given a good enough reason to who didn't raise his voice when he was frustrated but went quiet in a way that was actually harder to be on the receiving end of who had strong opinions about the right way to do things and held those opinions lightly enough to let someone show him a better way. She noticed these things carefully and filed them away without deciding what to do with them. The December evening that changed something between them wasn't dramatic. She'd expected if anything changed between them, it would be something large, some crisis navigated together, some revelation that rearranged the air. Instead, it was 11:00 at night and she couldn't sleep.
And she came downstairs to get warm water for the headache she'd been carrying since midday. Anne Bramwell was in the kitchen with a lamp and his account books and a cold cup of coffee he'd apparently forgotten about. He looked up when she came in. Neither of them said anything for a moment. She went to the stove and put the kettle on and said, "I have some thoughts about the spring supply order."
"Now," he said. "I can't sleep. Neither can I." She sat down across the table from him. He pushed his account books to one side.
She told him what she'd been working out in her head about what they'd need in spring, what the best timing was for ordering, which suppliers she'd researched, and which he thought were overpriced for the quality they delivered. He listened to all of it, asked three questions, and said, "You've been doing this in your head. I think about things when I can't sleep," she said. "So do I." He was quiet for a moment.
"Usually it's things I can't fix." She looked at him across the lamp. Elbeth, she said, not a question. Sometimes, he said, not as much lately. He looked down at his hands on the table, then back up at her.
The house is different now. It's harder to He stopped. It used to be quieter. It's hard to be lost in your own head when there's a 7-year-old somewhere asking what a hawk is. Miriam almost smiled.
Henry is thorough, she said. He is. Bramwell looked at his cold coffee. He asked me this afternoon whether I had a horse when I was his age. I told him about the first horse my father gave me and we were in the barn for 45 minutes.
A pause. I haven't talked about my father in a long time. Miriam was quiet. I don't say that to make you feel he started. I know, she said.