Hugo Updike brought a pie, and a pot of coffee, and a way of standing two steps back that made me trust him.
“No rush,” he said, handing me a plate. “I’ve minded these trees for twenty-four years. I can wait on a yes.”
“Ask me again in the spring,” I said.
When the sun went down, Anders sat on the porch step beside me.
He took the cross from his pocket and set it in my palm.
“Grandma said to give him something from her,” I said. “I think she meant for me to give it back.”
“Keep it,” he said. “It’s been a long walk home.”
I closed his fingers around it.
“No papers,” I said. “No conditions. No signatures.”
“Just come home.”
He looked out at the dark trees, at his father stacking paper plates, at the porch light flickering on.
“Okay,” he said.
Then, softly, trying the word like a key in an old lock:
May you like
