Chapter 11: The Cider Loft

"Stop the truck," I said.

Rory pulled onto the gravel at the foot of the orchard and killed the engine.

The night was cold and clear.

Stars hung over the cider barn, and the only sound was the tick of the cooling engine.

I had the letters in my lap, and I had read three.

Each one said almost the same thing.

An old man was sorry.

He asked whether I was warm and whether I had enough to eat.

He asked whether I might one day want to hear about my mother as a girl.

In the third, he told me she had once climbed the barn roof at seven years old to prove a point to him.

"I can't read the rest tonight," I said.

"Then don't."

"I'm so angry at him."

"You're allowed."

"I'm so angry at you."

"Also allowed."

"I'm not forgiving you," I said. "Not for that. You had a hundred chances."

"I know."

"I'm just not going to pretend I don't want you."

He turned his head.

In the dark his eyes were hard to read, but his hands on the wheel had gone white.

"Say that again," he said.

"I want you," I said. "I'm furious, and I want you. Both."

His shoulders lowered, all the tension giving way.

"Okay," he said hoarsely. "Come here."

"Not here."

I got out of the truck and walked up the gravel to the cider barn and pulled the sliding door open.

It smelled of pressed apples and cold timber.

A ladder rose to a loft, and up there somebody had left a pile of horse blankets and a wool quilt.

I climbed.

I heard him climb behind me, slowly, the ladder creaking.

At the top I turned around and pulled my sweater over my head.

Moonlight came through the high window, silver and cold, and I stood in it with my arms at my sides.

Rory came up through the hatch, and stopped on his knees.

"Ada."

"Take your coat off."

He did.

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