“Were you ever married?”
“No.”
“Close?”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted children.”
“You didn’t?”
“I did.”
Coulter looked toward her.
Adeline’s voice stayed steady.
“I had two miscarriages.”
The storm filled the silence.
Coulter did not say he was sorry immediately.
She appreciated that too.
“He handled the first one badly.”
“We both did.”
“The second one ended us.”
“He wanted to keep trying.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Then Meridian became my whole life.”
“When I lost that…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“I realized I had built my identity around something that could remove my badge in one meeting.”
Coulter nodded slowly.
“Shop did that to me after Marianne.”
“How?”
“I thought if the shop stayed open, I was still the man I had been with her.”
“So every bad month felt like losing her again.”
Adeline looked at him.
“That’s exactly what happened.”
They sat quietly.
Then Coulter said:
“I meant it.”
“What?”
“First day.”
Adeline raised an eyebrow.
“The wife comment?”
“Terrible wording.”
“Extremely.”
“I didn’t mean I needed somebody to cook.”
“I know that now.”
“I meant…”
He struggled.
Adeline waited.
“I needed somebody who cared whether I went home.”
Her face softened.
Coulter continued.
“I needed someone who’d notice when I stopped living again.”
“Marianne used to do that.”
“She could tell when I was disappearing into work.”
“I thought after she died, nobody had the right.”
Adeline whispered:
“And now?”
He looked at her.
“Now you yell at me when I forget lunch.”
“That’s because you become unpleasant.”
“I was unpleasant before.”
“More unpleasant.”
He almost smiled.
Then his expression became serious.
“I don’t need an office manager anymore.”
Adeline’s stomach dropped.
Coulter realized what it sounded like.
“No.”
“That came out wrong.”
“Again.”
“I mean…”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I need you.”
Adeline said nothing.
“Not because of the books.”
“Not because you saved the bank loan.”
“Not because you answer the phone.”
He looked toward the ring.
“I said I needed a wife.”
“I think what I meant was that I wanted a life that had another person inside it again.”
The storm rattled the glass.
Adeline’s heart beat hard enough to irritate her.
Coulter continued.
“I’m not proposing.”
“Good.”
“I don’t own a ring.”
“You have one hanging behind your workbench.”
“That would be a particularly bad choice.”
She smiled.
Coulter reached across the space between their chairs.
Not confidently.
His hand stopped halfway.
Adeline looked at it.
Then placed hers in his.
Nothing else happened that night.
No kiss.
No dramatic promise.
They sat holding hands while snow buried the parking lot.
For two people who had spent years convincing themselves they needed nobody, it was enough.
Spring exposed everything winter had hidden.
Mud.
Broken fence posts.
Potholes.
And Miles Donovan.
His final attempt began with a tax complaint.
The Montana Department of Revenue notified Briggs Auto that an anonymous report alleged years of underreported cash income.
Coulter read the letter twice.
Then once more.
“This can shut us down.”
“No.”
Adeline took it.
“It can trigger an examination.”