The Bequest
Chapter 58—Abigail

My first date with Steve, which lasted all of twelve minutes before it was interrupted by, well, sort of by a heart attack that turned out to be a panic attack, ended with a dousing in a freezing river (that looks like a lake to me). Green River's probably never very warm, since it's fed by snow runoff, but at night?

My teeth chattered the whole way home.

Not very romantic.

All in all, I wasn't off to a very good start. Since it was reminiscing with Robert, and then my startled reaction to his attempt at kissing me, that ruined it, I feel obligated to try and fix it. -CAN WE CALL A MULLIGAN?

Steve's at work, I think, so I'm not sure how speedily he'll respond, but I watch the phone for almost an hour anyway. Finally, the second I put it down to formalize some pre-trial paperwork, it bings.

It's Robert, not Steve. I try to manage my disappointment.

-JUDGE MOVED HIS VACATION AND TWO CASES SETTLED.

I reply.

-WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

-NOTHING YET. JUST SOMETHING TO WATCH.

Something tells me it's not nothing. It makes me think of hurricane season, when we're all watching the Atlantic, worried over every storm formation, tracking the path of every anomaly until we're safely out of the cone. He wouldn't be warning me if it were really nothing. And I can't very well say, if they move the trial date forward, "Too bad. I'm busy." Nor can I leave my kids here without me. On top of my legal work, I've been supervising all the animals, and riding up at least once a week to check on the cows.

If I'm being honest, it's been nice. Tranquil, even. The things that go wrong are mostly out of my control, which means there's not a lot for me to fret about. Things will either go well or they won't. Ethan's out cutting hay again today, our last alfalfa field, and Kevin says things are looking really promising to get a second cut, which would leave us home free on that front, at least. Alfalfa's apparently the most expensive hay to buy, which means it's great for us to get a second round. -IT'S TAKE A MULLIGAN, NOT CALL A MULLIGAN. AND I LIKED OUR FIRST DATE. BUT I'D BE KEEN ON A SECOND.

My worry about the case evaporates, and I replace myself smiling like an idiot. I should want to forget all about Saturday night, but instead, I look back on it in a new light. It's a funny story, at least. Nate and I never had that. We just had a bunch of classes together, flirted a little bit, and then he bought me a drink at one of the law school pub crawls.

I mean, it's not a bad story, and certainly not an embarrassing one, but this one's a lot splashier.

Literally.

Amanda said Steve sprinted across the deck and dove headlong into the water the moment he saw me fall. I've been trying to figure out whether he saw what prompted the fall ever since. -TONIGHT? I'M OFF AT 5.

Tonight? Wow, he really is keen. What a funny word.

-AMANDA'S TAKING HER GIRLS ON A PICNIC, AND I PROMISED MY KIDS ENCHILADAS.

-I LIKE ENCHILADAS. AND I LIKE YOUR KIDS.

Is he implying he'd like our second date to be a meal with my four kids? The ones he teaches horseback lessons to twice a week? He can't be serious.

-MAYBE TOMORROW'S BETTER.

-I'M NOT AFRAID OF JAM HANDS.

Is he quoting 'Gilmore Girls'? Because he does have sort of a Luke-like vibe about him, if you replaced Luke's ball cap with a cowboy hat, and if Luke had a six-pack I can't stop thinking about. And if Luke didn't have a receding hairline-so maybe it's not a very strong vibe.

Every time I pause, I relive that moment again and again. His arms went around me, and he dragged me up to the surface. My desperate hands cast around for anything at all, but they found something wide and flat and ridged. Steve's stomach. They moved upward to his chest. His very hard, very defined chest. I saw it all the day I arrived but feeling it for myself was different somehow. Now I have a feeling to go along with the memory of him, pushing that lawn mower, sweat glistening...

I shake my head to clear it, but it's not very effective. In fact, it kind of sends me right back to the beginning of the loop, to when I was plunging underwater, unsure which way was up. And those arms came around me the strong arms I watch, muscles bunching, each day as he rides. I'm sure he contracts the abs to stabilize himself. Oh, the abs.

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On second thought, if we go out tomorrow night without kids, I might leap on him and rub my hands all over his torso. He'd then assume I was rabid or insane and never talk to me again.

-FINE. I'LL BE SURE TO HAVE PLENTY OF JAM.

-THAT'S THE BEAUTY OF KIDS. EVEN WITHOUT JAM IN THE HOUSE, THEY STILL MANAGE TO HAVE JAM HANDS.

He's definitely referencing Luke. HE'S MY FAVORITE CHARACTER.

-HE'S MY SPIRIT ANIMAL.

-SORRY, BUT I'M PRETTY SURE THAT'S A HORSE.

-CRAP, YOU GOT ME.

I am desperate to know what woman made him watch 'Gilmore Girls'... not that I have the guts to ask. Not yet, anyway. -7:00?

-6:15? I'M STARVING WHEN I GET OFF WORK.

And that's forty-five minutes sooner. I'm not about to complain.

-SURE.

-WHAT CAN I BRING?

-YOUR SPARKLING PERSONALITY? MAYBE SOME WET WIPES.

-WET WIPES? FOR THE STICKY FINGERS.

He sends me a laughing emoji, which makes me kind of proud of him. I dramatically overuse them, even catching myself thinking in emojis sometimes. The fact that he's using them, as a man, gives me hope that mine won't annoy him. After I relive the water scare one more time, I vow it will be my last. I'm sure I'm making it into a much bigger deal than it is, probably because I'm so starved for affection, like a barn cat. He'll be lucky if I don't purr and rub up against his leg the second we're alone. How embarrassing.

Meanwhile, Robert acted like nothing had happened. He ate French toast, then packed his bag and left Sunday on the flight he had booked from the start. He hasn't mentioned how I dove into a river to avoid kissing him, so I haven't had a chance to even tell him that it wasn't him, it was totally me.

I wish I knew how much of my inexplicable attraction to Steve without the attendant guilt has to do with his location and my finite time here, and how much has to do with our lack of shared history. Unfortunately, I don't know how to unwind those things in my mind.

It's one of those nights where everyone wants to help me make dinner, including Ethan. They're rare, but I cherish them every single time. Ethan's great at making pico, because he never seems to cry no matter how many onions he dices. The only problem is that his taste for jalapeños outstrips everyone else's. I stop him from dumping three full peppers and their seeds just in time.

"We went all the way to Green River to get these," he says. "It would be a shame not to use them."

"Save them for your tacos," I say. "Then they won't go to waste, and no one will leave the room crying."

He rolls his eyes. "You guys are such wusses."

"But we're your wusses."

He wraps his arms around my neck and squeezes me. "That's true."

I hate to admit it, but he seems happier here. Much happier than he has for more than a year. Maybe it's working outside. Maybe it's not having the threat of more school hanging over his head. Or maybe it's that we're not in our big, beautiful, perfect home... that's chock full of memories.