Nathan felt something break open in his chest, something that had been locked tight for so long he’d forgotten it was there. “I’d like that,” he managed to say. “I’d like that a lot.” Alicia crossed the distance between them and hugged him, fierce and tight, and Marcus followed, wrapping his arms around both of them, and the three of them stood there on that porch holding each other while the Kansas sun beat down, and somewhere in the field the corn grew and life went on, just a little bit better than it had been before.
True to his word, Nathan came back, not just once, but regularly. At first it was once a month, flying in on Friday evenings and leaving Sunday afternoons. Then it was every other week. Then as summer turned to fall, and Alicia prepared to leave for college, he started coming almost every weekend. He told himself it was to check on the farm, to make sure the repairs were progressing smoothly, and the late season corn was growing properly. But the truth was simpler and more complicated. He came back because the Hill farm was the only place he felt like himself.
They fell into an easy rhythm. Nathan would arrive Friday evening, and Marcus would have dinner waiting, something simple, usually, because Marcus wasn’t much of a cook, but made with care. They’d eat together at the kitchen table, talking about the farm and Nathan’s work and Alicia’s preparation for college. After dinner, they’d sit on the porch watching the sun set over the corn field, and Nathan would feel the tension of his Chicago life slowly draining away.
Saturdays, Nathan helped with whatever work needed doing. He wasn’t much use at first. Thirty years of desk work hadn’t prepared him for labor, but he learned. Marcus taught him how to check the irrigation lines, how to identify pest damage in corn leaves, how to operate the old tractor that Marcus used for hauling equipment. Nathan’s hands blistered, then calloused. His back ached. He’d never been happier.
One Saturday afternoon in late July, they were in the kitchen preparing dinner together. Marcus had declared that Nathan needed to learn to cook properly, and Alicia was supervising the lesson with obvious amusement. Nathan was attempting to dice vegetables for a stew, concentrating hard on keeping his fingers out of the way of the knife.
“You’re holding it wrong,” Alicia said, trying not to laugh. “You’re supposed to—here. Let me show you.” She took his hands and repositioned them, demonstrating the proper technique. “See, you curl your fingers like this so you can’t cut yourself.” “Got it,” Nathan said, trying again. The knife slipped, missing the carrot entirely, and putting a shallow cut across the tip of his thumb. “Ow, damn it.”
“Language,” Marcus said automatically, but he was smiling as he handed Nathan a paper towel. “You’re hopeless in the kitchen.” “I’m aware.” Nathan wrapped the paper towel around his thumb, feeling oddly pleased despite the minor injury. When was the last time someone had corrected his language? When was the last time someone had cared enough to teach him something, to tease him about being bad at it, to hand him a paper towel without making it feel like a failure.