Chapter 8 â Denver
Sunday dinner became a regular thing without anyone declaring it would be. Thomas came at six. He brought something each time: firewood the first Sunday, a jar of honey the second, and Annieâs book of recipes the third, which he handed to Clara with the expression of a man delivering something that required more explanation than he knew how to give.
âShe cooked on Sundays,â he said, âbadly, but enthusiastically.â
Clara opened the book. The recipes had notes in Annieâs handwriting: adjustments, complaints, and one that said simply, Do not make this again.
âDo you want me to try one?â Clara asked.
He looked at the recipe she was pointing to. âThat one specifically was very bad.â
âI could make it worse.â
âThat would be an achievement.â
She made it. It was, in fact, considerably worse. They ate it anyway, laughing at the table in a way that Clara had not laughed in years, and that Thomas had not laughedâshe could see it in his faceâin longer than that.
May you like
She sent the letter to Denver the following Tuesday. Three weeks later, a reply came that changed what she could source for the shop considerably: arrangements they had never been able to offer, flowers for winter months, a partnership she had imagined for three years without believing it was possible.
She told Thomas about it the next Sunday. He read the letter, set it down, and then he smiledâthe full one, the one she had seen building since October and had not seen completely until now. It changed his face entirely.
