A man who knew how to build furniture but hadn’t yet learned how to protect his own peace.
I woke shortly after seven the next morning.
For several seconds, I didn’t recognize the room. The bed was enormous, the sheets were white, and a lavender sachet sat on the nightstand beside a glass of water.
Then I heard music drifting up from downstairs.
Soft jazz.
Chet Baker.
My father used to play that music on Sunday mornings while he repaired old chairs in our garage.
I sat on the edge of the bed, listening until the familiar melody made me homesick.
When I went downstairs, I found Diane standing at the kitchen island.
She wore a loose cream sweater and black silk trousers. Her hair was twisted into a careless knot, held in place by a wooden pencil.
She had no makeup on.
Somehow, she looked even more beautiful than she had the night before.
