Chapter 23: Seven Mornings

On the eighth morning it rained, and Colt was at the gate.

He had been there at ten o'clock on each of the seven mornings before it.

He wore the same denim jacket and stayed ten minutes.

He never rang the bell.

He never asked.

He stood outside the iron bars with his hands in his pockets and said good morning to the guard.

When the ten minutes were up, he left.

I had watched him from the upstairs window every time, and I had not opened the gate.

Grandfather had moved out to the garden lodge the day we came home, with his two dogs and a single suitcase.

He had not said why.

He did not need to.

This morning Birdie stood beside me at the glass in her yellow raincoat.

"He's all wet," she said.

"He chose to stand there."

"Mommy, wet people need umbrellas."

"He's not a plant, Birdie."

"Somebody should give him one anyway."

Gus had already pulled on his boots.

"I'm going to get Daddy," he said.

"Gus..."

"He was here seven times. That's a lot of times."

I looked down at my son's earnest face, and I found that I had no argument.

I took the umbrella from the stand by the door and walked down the drive myself.

Colt saw me coming and took his hands out of his pockets.

His hair was plastered flat, and the rain ran off his chin.

"I'm not here to ask," he said. "I'm early. It's not ten."

"I know what time it is."

"Then..."

"Come in, Colt."

He didn't move.

"Lin. You don't have to."

"I know I don't." I held the umbrella out over both of us.

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