Chapter 22: The Loft

She came up the drive on a Thursday afternoon in a green Subaru with Oregon dirt on the doors.

I was in the barn, mending a stall board.

I heard the engine and set the hammer down.

She parked by the corral and got out.

She stood with her hand on the roof of the car, looking at the house.

She had a new tan, and salt in her hair.

I stayed in the barn door.

My rule was that she came to me, and I did not go to her.

She crossed the yard in sandals and a yellow sundress, with her braid swinging.

"You didn't write," I said.

"You didn't ask."

"I'm not allowed."

She smiled, a slow, proud smile I was starting to learn.

"I saw it," she said. "The ocean. It's too big, Jack. You can't keep it in your head."

"I'm glad."

"You can say it."

"I'm glad you saw it."

She stood in front of me, close enough to touch.

I kept my hands at my sides.

"Touch me," she said.

I put my palm against her cheek, and she turned her face into it and closed her eyes.

I felt her whole body let go.

"I missed your hands," she said. "God help me. I thought about them on the beach."

"What did you think?"

"Come up to the loft."

She climbed the ladder first.

I followed, and I watched her bare legs go up rung by rung.

The loft was warm and gold, with light coming through the slats and the smell of last year's hay.

Dust moved in the air.

The big door at the end stood open to the yard, and the whole afternoon lay outside it.

She spread a horse blanket on the hay and turned to me.

"Undress me," she said. "Slowly."

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