Chapter 23: The Spare Room

On Saturday Bree moved into an apartment of her own, with her settlement paid and no trustee anywhere in it.

Sam carried her boxes up three flights, and she cried on both landings.

When the truck was empty we drove back to Alder Street and stood in the doorway of the spare room.

It was bare except for a rolled drop cloth and a ladder.

Kyle had used it for his golf clubs, and they had gone with him in the first week.

"What's it going to be?" Sam asked.

"I don't know."

"You could put a desk in it."

"I could."

"Or an office for the bakery's books."

"I could do that too."

"Willa." He leaned on the doorframe with his arms folded. "What do you want it to be?"

I had been asked a lot of questions that month by lawyers, judges and a chairman with a cane.

Nobody had asked me that one.

"I want a window seat," I said. "And a crib, someday, and a mess on the floor."

I said it plainly, and my voice didn't shake.

"I've had a clean chart for four days. I'd like to use it."

He pushed away from the doorframe.

"Not today," I said. "Someday. With the right man."

"Is the man standing in this doorway?"

"He's a contender. He took a number."

"I'm number one," Sam said. "I've been number one since you put the check in the lawyer's hand."

"That's not how numbers work."

"It's how mine works."

He crossed the room in three steps and put his hands on my face.

He kissed me slowly, his thumbs on my cheekbones, and he was already smiling against my mouth.

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