leaned over and picked up one of the pieces, the flawless surface smooth and cool against his hand. “Getting any messages from Mae?” Roxie asked, a smile in her voice.
Charley set the piece back down, then took a long swallow of his tea. “Do whatever you think best,” he said, feeling a little piece of himself break off, like a melting iceberg.
Although the fact was, Mae had told him before she died to sell the whole shebang, put the money into an annuity. It was him who was resisting, not Mae. Who didn’t really speak to him, of course. Even if he sometimes wished she did. Lord, what he’d give to hear her laughter again.
The pretense hadn’t even been a conscious decision, really. Just kind of happened one day when Roxie had been bugging him about packing up Mae’s clothes, and Charley, growing increasingly irritated, heard himself say, “Mae wouldn’t want me to do that,” and Roxie’d said, “What?” and he said, “She told me not to get rid of her things yet,” and Roxie had backed right off, much to Charley’s surprise.
Charley supposed it was his subconscious stumbling upon a way to make Mae the buffer again. Not that he was entirely proud of using his dead wife in this manner, but if it got Roxie off his case? Whatever worked. And that way it wasn’t him changing his mind, it was Mae.
Long as he didn’t carry things too far. Dotty was one thing, incompetent another. Fortunately the hospice social worker—who Roxie’d contacted without his say-so—had reassured her it wasn’t uncommon for the surviving spouse to imagine conversations with the one who’d gone on, it was simply part of the grieving process for some people, it would eventually run its course and she shouldn’t become overly concerned.
So it would. Run its course. Soon as “hearing” Mae no longer served his purpose, he’d “realize” he no longer did.
Two more pieces unwrapped and noted in that spiral notebook she carried everywhere with her, Roxie glanced up. “You okay? You’re awfully quiet.”
He decided not to point out he could say the same about her. And he was guessing Noah Garrett had something to do with that.
“Nothing to say, I suppose,” he said as the powerless feelings once again threatened to drown him. “Need some help unwrapping?”
“Only if you want to.”
He didn’t. Outside, the wind picked up, the wet snow slapping against the bay window, slithering down the single-paned glass behind the flimsy plastic panels he popped into their frames every year. Simply watching the plastic “breathe” as it fought valiantly but inefficiently against the onslaught made him shiver. Roxie glanced over, then reached behind her for one of the new plush throws she’d bought at Sam’s Club to replace the sorry, tattered things that had been around since the dawn of time, wordlessly handing it to him.
Charley didn’t argue. Instead, he tucked it around his knees. “New windows included in that estimate Noah’s gonna give us?”
Shoving a pencil into her curls, Roxie smiled. “What’s Mae say about it?”
“Mae’s not the one freezing her behind off,” Charley snapped. “So. Am I getting new windows or not?”
Rolling her eyes, Roxie pulled her cell phone and what Charley assumed was the shop’s card out of her sweatshirt’s pocket and punched in a number. While she waited for somebody to pick up, she glanced over, a tiny smile on her lips. “Mae would be very proud of you, you know.”
Charley grunted—only to nearly jump out of his skin when he heard, clear as day, You want me to be proud? Fix Roxie. Then we’ll talk.
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