She was going to need to keep it that way. Let Foss document everything, she said. I'll write down every date I remember. I'll give him the note. She'd kept the note.
She didn't know why she'd kept it. Some instinct that had made her fold it and put it in the bottom of the one bag she'd packed. And now she understood what the instinct had been for. Whatever he needs. Bramwell nodded.
And if our son comes here, she said, I'll handle it. Miriam, I'll handle it, she said again clearly. Not harshly, but with a finality that she meant him to understand. I appreciate everything you've done. I appreciate that you're sitting here right now, but this is my situation and my children.
And when Orson comes, if Orson comes, I need to be the one who faces him. Not behind you. Not behind anyone. He looked at her for a long moment. I understand that, he said.
Do you? Yes. He said it without offense. I'm not going to stand between you and your own life, Miriam. That's not that's not what I want to do.
He paused. But I'm not going to pretend I don't care what happens either. So, if you'll let me stand next to you, I'll do that." She looked at him. The lamp between them threw a warm, unsteady light, and outside the Montana February pressed against the walls of the house, and somewhere above them six children were sleeping in warm rooms.
And this man across from her had said exactly the right thing in exactly the right way, and she was going to need a moment before she trusted herself to respond to it. "Next to," she said finally. "Not in front of agreed," he said. She drank her coffee. He drank his.
After a while, she said, "I'm going to need to tell Tessa." He nodded. "Not yet," she said. "Not until I have to." "She'll worry, and worrying won't help her.