Page 100 of Charlotte

“You married a wounded man,” Lottie said. “A good man, yes. An honorable man. Wounded all the same. You can call it research, necessity, judgment, or whatever tidy word fits into your ledger, but I stood in church and watched your hands shake at the altar.”

Delly’s face had gone pale. Lottie hated she had hurt her. She kept going anyway, because some truths came out with edges no matter how gently one tried to carry them.

“You care for him,” Lottie said. “You may not know what to do with it yet, but you do. I have seen the way he looks at you. I have seen the way you notice him and then pretend you noticed the weather instead.”

“That is not fair.”

“No. It isn’t.” Lottie’s voice broke. “Neither is treating my heart like a hazard because it chose a man with visible wounds instead of invisible ones.”

Delly stood then.

For a moment, they faced each other across the churchyard, both breathing too hard, both holding hurt neither knew where to put down.

“I am trying,” Delly said, each word measured with difficulty, “to keep you from giving the whole of yourself to a man who may not stay.”

“I know.”

“He has not promised you marriage.”

“I know.”

“He gave you a name, yes. He gave you a drawing. Those are not small things, but they are not vows.”

“I know that too.”

“Why are you angry with me for saying what is true?”

“You say things like they are locked doors.”

Delly drew in a breath. Lottie wiped at her cheek, furious with the escaping tear.

“I want him. The whole of him. The hand, the name, the stubbornness, the fear, all of it. Not because I think I can fix him. Not because I think love will make the winter unhappen. I want him because I have seen who he is when he forgets to hide.”

Delly’s eyes filled. That almost stopped Lottie.

Almost.

“I am eighteen years old,” Lottie said. “I am young, yes. I am hopeful. I am also not foolish simply because hope is the language I speak best. I crossed half a continent, leaving behind the only life I knew. I am building a library in a town where people still think poetry needs supervision. I can choose a difficult man with my eyes open.”

Delly’s tears spilled first. That was the true shock of the evening. Her sister, who had not cried at the dock, or during the wedding, or when the Busy Bees nearly married her off through committee effort, stood beside the churchyard wall with tears sliding down her face.

“I don’t know how to stop being afraid for you,” Delly whispered.

Lottie’s anger cracked. It was still there, hot and sore beneath her ribs. It cracked enough for love to move through.

“I am not asking you to stop being afraid.”

“I hear danger in everything.”

“I know.”

“I see what could go wrong before I see what could go right.”

“I know that too.”

“I look at Peterson, and I see every way he could hurt you without meaning to.”

“I look at him and see every way he is trying not to.”