When Di's stomach hurts, she lies down by the succulents and bear claws,
the gnarled sea logs, and the shoehorn-shaped seal skull she found stuck out
from the blue-black body, red holes in its side—She lies in a C-section shape,
her favorite scar. Its shiny surface reflects the night sky.
*
In school, Di learned to paint
how the masters taught her.
She didn't love it, and she did it well.
One day, her emerald portrait
of Walt Whitman, maybe her father,
was stolen. She chased the THIEF
through New York, her face a grape,
until he just stopped, returned
the image, her selfie, saying "here,
I don't much care for it."
*
She doesn't want to be an angry atheist
anymore. If Di doesn't believe in god, there's a massive
space leftover. A blue hill. Thank you for
the information? Di finds another girl
with three septum piercings and a sharp
longing for bruises, damage her beauty
resents. Resentment, "the most precious flower
of poverty." They tell their stories of the king
coming, and the kingdom, a wolf milk at best.
Wolf breast replaces crucifix above the bed.
Hair circles, a mighty anger in her little finger,
her little finger, her little finger, her little finger.
⁂
Sara Sutter is a poet based in Portland, Oregon. These poems come from an illustrated manuscript of poems about a young person named Di. Read more by Sara at sarasutterpoetry.com.
The playlist had been Rowan’s idea, which meant it had started as indie folk and migrated through three genres before anyone noticed.
Sara was on the porch swing with her feet in Ash’s lap, Jameson in a coffee mug because the clean glasses were inside and nobody was getting up. Ash had one hand around his own mug and the other wrapped around Sara’s ankle, thumb moving idly along the bone like he was checking that she was still there. Rowan was cross-legged in the rocking chair with their phone and a drink that had started as whiskey and Coke and was now mostly ice and ambition. Vale had the wicker chair with the cushion that smelled like rain no matter how many times you washed it, a scarf he didn’t need in August folded across his lap, nursing a beer he’d been working on for forty minutes.
Jax had gone down about an hour ago. He’d announced he was “just gonna close his eyes for one second” on the couch inside and was now producing snores that could be heard through the screen door at rhythmic intervals, like a foghorn with a deviated septum.
The opening notes of “Wait For It” came tinny and warm from the porchlight, courtesy of the speaker bulb Rowan had installed and Sara had pretended to hate for exactly three days.
“Oh,” Rowan said, sitting up. “Okay, yes. This one.”
“This is the Burr one,” Sara said, not opening her eyes.
“This is the Burr one. This is the one where he tells you who he is and you believe him, and then you spend the rest of the show watching him prove it.”
Vale turned his bottle in his hands. “It’s interesting because Burr is more complicated historically than the show allows him to be. Chernow gives him more room than Miranda does. The musical needs him as the foil, so his caution becomes cowardice because Hamilton is never still long enough to recognize caution as a virtue.”
“Aye, but that’s not what it is,” Ash said.
Vale glanced over. “What’s not?”
“Caution.” Ash took a sip from his mug. His eyes were half-closed, his voice sitting lower and warmer than usual, the edges gone soft with whiskey and porch dark. “Not in th’ song, anyway. Burr’s not bein’ careful. He’s waitin’ for permission.”
Vale’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “That’s a bit of an oversimplification.”
“I’m not talkin’ about the whole dead man, Brennan.” Ash lifted the cigarette between two fingers, pointing with it because Ash could not make a point without involving at least one dangerous object. “I’m talkin’ about the Burr the song gives us.”
Rowan shifted forward in the rocking chair, their hand subtly reaching for their phone.
“No, wait,” they said. “I want to hear this. Go on.”
Sara’s foot nudged Ash’s thigh.
He looked over at her.
She was grinning at him, the specific grin, the one that meant she already knew there was something in the box and was waiting for him to open it in front of people.
Ash narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like ye know I’m about t’ say somethin’.”
“You are about to say something.”
“I say things all th’ time.”
“Not like this.”
He stared at her for another second, then huffed smoke through his nose and sat forward.
“Right, then,” he said. “Soapbox?”
“Soapbox,” Sara confirmed.
Ash took a breath. Let it out slow. The porch settled around him, the moths worrying the light, the tree frogs in the dark, Jax snoring through the screen door like a structural defect.
“No, see, it’s th’ room that gets me,” Ash said. “Everybody’s singin’ about th’ room. Burr wants in. Hamilton writes himself in. Fights himself in. Bleeds himself in, probably, because God forbid that man do anything at a reasonable volume. But both of them still believe in th’ room.”
Vale’s beer paused halfway to his mouth.
“What room?” Rowan asked, delighted.
“'The room where it happens.” Ash tipped the cigarette toward the dark. “Th’ room where power says, aye, grand, you count now. Burr wants somebody t’ open the door. Hamilton makes himself impossible t’ keep out. An’ fair enough, aye? Sometimes ye do need in. Sometimes th’ law’s in there. Sometimes th’ money’s in there. Sometimes th’ bastards in the room are decidin’ whether ye eat.”
Vale was watching him now.
Properly watching.
“But Glassie...”
Vale’s head came up.
Ash did not seem to notice. Or he noticed and chose not to notice, which with Ash was often the same thing from the outside.
“Glassie has that thing, doesn’t he, about houses bein’ evidence. Not scenery. Not quaint wee survivals for people t’ put in books an’ feel clever about. Evidence. A house tells ye what problem a people thought they were solving.”
Rowan quietly shifted their phone, turning the camera away from Ash and toward Vale’s face.
Sara saw it and said nothing.
Ash had gone where he went sometimes, when a thing had been sitting in his head too long and finally found a door. His accent was thicker now, not collapsed, not difficult, just less managed. The Tennessee had drained out of him, the Irish standing where it had been.
“An’ th’ dogtrot solves heat before it solves status,” he said. “Solves fire. Solves too many bodies an’ not enough money an’ summers that’ll rot ye alive if the air doesn’t move. Two pens, open middle. Not a hall. Not a porch. A passage. Keep it open an’ it’s one answer. Close it around a chimney an’ it becomes another. Dogtrot, saddlebag, double-pen... Same bones tryin’ t’ solve different weather.”
“That’s Montell,” Vale said quietly.
Ash glanced over then. Quick. Sharp.
“Aye,” he said. “Some of it.”
“Some of it?”
“Some’s Montell. Some’s Glassie. Some’s Kephart. Some’s Fischer. Some’s ol’ Andrew talkin’ about his father’s people like he’s tellin’ a story and not handin’ ye a map.”
Vale went very still.
Sara watched him catch it.
Not the conclusion. Not yet. The source trail.
That was the thing that landed. The names, yes, but more than the names: the way Ash sorted them. Not as trivia. Not as things he had picked up to make himself look educated. As materials. Timber, stone, weather, land, voice, migration, memory. Things that could be fitted against each other until they held.
Ash took another drink and looked back toward the yard.
“I’m just sayin’,” he said, softer now, “maybe there’s more than one answer t’ bein’ kept outside. Burr waits for th’ room. Hamilton breaks himself tryin’ t’ get into it. Mountain answer’s uglier, maybe. Meaner. Less noble. But it works.”
He tapped ash into the tray on the porch rail.
“Build where ye are. Leave a way for air t’ pass through.”
The porch went quiet.
The playlist had moved on to something acoustic nobody was listening to. A moth threw itself at the light with the kind of persistence that suggested it had learned nothing from history.
Vale stared at Ash.
Ash stared at the yard.
Sara’s foot rested in his lap, and his hand had found her ankle again without looking, thumb returning to that same idle line along the bone like the entire ten-minute detour through American political philosophy and Appalachian material culture had been a brief interruption in the real work of holding on to her.
“You’ve read Glassie,” Vale said.
“And Montell.”
Ash’s mouth twitched. “A wee bit.”
“Aye.”
“And Fischer.”
“Everybody’s read Fischer.”
“No,” Vale said, too fast. “They have not.”
Rowan made a small, delighted noise behind their glass.
Ash looked faintly amused now, but there was caution under it. Sara could see it. Vale probably could too, now that he was actually looking. The slight retreat behind the eyes. The old instinct that said being noticed too precisely was a dangerous thing.
Vale turned the beer bottle between his palms.
“You’re saying,” he said slowly, “that Burr and Hamilton are both still oriented around institutional legitimacy. Access. Permission. The room. But vernacular architecture—specifically Appalachian vernacular architecture—is oriented around function first. Survival first. Local conditions first.”
Ash considered that.
“Aye,” he said. “That’s cleaner.”
“You said it messier.”
“I’m drunk.”
“You are.”
“An’ you’re welcome.”
Sara laughed into her mug.
Vale did not laugh. Not immediately. He looked down at the beer in his hands like it had become part of the problem.
“Glassie was one of the first books I read at UT that made me feel like local history didn’t have to apologize for being local,” he said, mostly to himself. “That material culture wasn’t illustration. It was argument.”
Ash’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Sara knew his face. She knew the moment something got through.
“Aye,” he said, quieter. “Exactly that.”
Vale looked up.
For a second, the two of them just sat there with the same thing between them—both of them touching a different side of it, the quiet holding just long enough to become noticeable.
Then Jax snored so loudly from inside that the screen door rattled.
Sara’s mouth twitched.
A squeak of couch springs followed, then the heavy thump of someone hitting the floor.
Everyone froze.
A beat.
“I’m good,” Jax mumbled from the living room.
The snoring resumed immediately.
Rowan lost it first.
Sara followed.
Ash’s grin came back like someone had struck a match.
Vale closed his eyes. “Of course.”
“He heard us getting profound,” Rowan said.
“Body rejected it,” Sara said.
Vale laughed then, reluctant and real, and the pressure on the porch broke into something ordinary enough to survive.
But not all the way.
Not for Vale.
He looked at Ash differently after that.
Not loudly. Vale did not do anything loudly unless forced. But Sara saw it in the way his eyes returned to Ash when Ash was not speaking. The way he seemed to be going back through old files and finding the labels insufficient.
Ash finished his drink and set the mug down on the porch rail.
“Was that all right?” he asked later, quietly, when the playlist had moved on and Rowan had stopped pretending not to save the recording.
Sara leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. He tasted like Jameson and smoke and the warm, uncertain edge of a man who had accidentally let a room see him before he had decided whether the door should open.
“That was perfect,” she said.
“I think I broke Brennan.”
“He’ll live.”
Vale was, in fact, staring at nothing.
After a long moment, he stood with the careful precision of a man whose entire internal filing system had just been reorganized without his consent.
“I need another beer.”
“Fridge,” Sara said. “Bottom shelf. Behind the potato salad.”
Vale went inside.
Through the window, Sara could see him standing in front of the open refrigerator, not reaching for anything, just standing there in the cold light.
Recalibrating.
Rowan rocked back in the chair and pressed play on the recording.
Ash’s voice came through the porchlight speaker, tinny and rolling.
No, see, it’s th’ room that gets me—
“I’m sending this to Jax,” Rowan said.
“Don’t ye dare.”
“He’s going to lose his entire mind.”
“Rowan. I will end ye.”
“You just made Aaron Burr about dogtrot houses and you think I’m not sending this to Jax?”
“Sara. Sara, tell ‘em...”
Sara took a sip of whiskey. “I’m not gettin’ involved in this conversation.”
Ash dropped his head back against the swing and stared at the porch ceiling.
“Ye’re all terrible people.”
“Aye,” Sara said, doing his accent badly on purpose. “That’s about th’ shape of it.”
He laughed.
The real one.
The one that came out on the porch, in the dark, with the people who had built a house he did not have to fight his way into.
=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=
The book had been on the coffee table for four days before Vale picked it up.
Not before he noticed it. He had noticed it the morning after the Hamilton conversation: spine up, Pal’s receipt marking a page about a third of the way through, sitting on top of a back issue of Woodworker’s Journal that had been there since March. Vale noticed everything. He had filed it, categorized it, and moved on.
Ash read.
That was known.
The book existed.
Fine.
On the fourth day, he picked it up.
Pattern in the Material Folk Culture of the Eastern United States.
Henry Glassie.
Vale stood there for a moment with his thumb on the cover.
Then he sat down in the wicker chair and read for two hours.
It was not a revelation. That was not the right word. A revelation implied absence before arrival, and Vale had not lacked the information. He knew Ash read. He had seen Ash’s library books come through the system in that ambient way librarians knew things: not surveillance, not intention, just the quiet peripheral awareness of circulation and names and due dates. Fischer. Kephart. WPA interviews. A book on log structures. A field guide to Appalachian wildflowers Sara had requested and Ash had renewed twice.
Vale had filed all of that under Ash reads things.
The file needed expansion.
Because the books were not random.
That was the part he had missed.
Fischer was migration and folkways. Kephart was highland culture, flawed and dated and still unavoidable. The WPA interviews were oral record. The architecture books were material evidence. Even the wildflower guide, probably for Sara, had the same shape if Vale looked at it sideways: land as text. Place as something legible.
Ash had been having the same conversation with himself for months.
Maybe longer.
In books, in job sites, in Andrew’s stories, in Pal’s receipts used as bookmarks, in the quiet hours when the rest of the house slept and Ash did not always need to.
And no one had asked him about it because no one had known there was something to ask.
Because he did not perform it.
That was the thing.
Ash talked about what he knew, not where he had learned it. He said “old houses are built like that for a reason” and let you assume he meant work sites and weather and Malachy Crowleigh yelling about load-bearing walls.
Which he did mean.
But he also meant Glassie. He meant Montell. He meant source against source against oral history against timber under his own hands.
The intelligence was not hidden, it was just camouflaged as practicality.
Vale sat with the book open in his lap and felt something in him rearrange.
He’d waited eleven days.
Not on purpose. He just couldn't figure out how to do it without making it a thing, and every version he rehearsed in his head sounded like a thing.
I've been thinking about what you said. Too formal.
That was really interesting, what you said about Burr. Condescending.
I didn't know you'd read that much about— Worse. Actively worse. Might as well say, I'm surprised you can read.
Vale had known the story of Ash before he knew Ash.
Sara’s Ash. Roan Mountain Ash. Bonfire Ash. The boy who made Sara’s bad ideas worse and followed her into the consequences grinning. The man from the wild years, all spark and gasoline and no brakes. The one who vanished into the woods and came back wrong enough that the house learned to watch him without calling it watching.
All of it true.
None of it enough.
The problem was that any version of I want to talk to you about ideas contained, underneath it, the admission that he hadn't thought to ask before.
And that was the part that sat badly.
Vale had not ignored Ash. That would have been easier, in a way. Cleaner. He had noticed him constantly. He knew the shape of Ash’s routines, the signs of a bad day, the particular silences that meant Sara was worried even when neither of them said anything. He knew how Ash moved through the kitchen at night, which mugs he used, how he took his coffee when he forgot to pretend otherwise, where he left books, tools, cigarettes, receipts, half-finished thoughts disguised as clutter.
It was knowledge.
It was care.
It was also incomplete.
He had mistaken knowing how a man fit into the house for knowing the shape of the man himself.
On the eleventh day, Sara left for the shop at seven. Rowan was at their apartment on a deadline. Jax was at the gym. The house was quiet in the specific way Sara’s house was quiet when only the non-sleepers were home; which was to say, not quiet at all. The chickens were going. The pipes were doing the thing. The dryer was running a load nobody had started, which meant Ash had done laundry at some point between midnight and dawn.
The man did not sleep.
He did laundry.
The domesticity of it was so at odds with everything else about him that Vale had stopped trying to reconcile it.
Ash was on the back porch. Chair tilted against the siding, cigarette between two fingers and his phone in his hand, reading something on the screen. His feet were bare on the porch boards. His hands looked warm around the mug. His color was good. He looked comfortable in his body today.
Vale caught himself making the old inventory: Hands. Color. Stillness. Appetite.
The habit embarrassed him suddenly, not because it was wrong, but because it was not enough.
He went back inside and poured two mugs of coffee.
Vale brought both mugs out to the porch and set Ash’s on the railing beside him.
Cream—the real amount, not the polite amount—and sugar, not black; the coffee Ash made himself when he thought no one was building an opinion out of it.
Ash looked at the mug. Looked at Vale.
His eyebrows did something very slight that, on anyone else, would have been imperceptible and, on Ash, was a full paragraph of: That’s interesting. You brought me coffee. You’ve never done that before. You made it right. Which means you’ve been paying attention to how I actually drink it and not how I say I drink it. I’m going to sit with that for a second.
“Cheers,” Ash said, and picked it up.
Vale sat in the other chair. The wicker one. He held his own mug with both hands because that was what his hands did when they did not know what else to do.
The silence was thirteen seconds long.
Vale counted.
“So,” he said. “I read Glassie.”
Ash’s cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.
Only for a beat.
Then it completed the journey. He inhaled. The smoke came out slow.
“Aye?”
The single syllable.
Technically an answer. Not yet an opening.
“You called it a wee bit.”
Ash looked toward the yard. “It is a wee bit.”
“It’s Henry Glassie.”
“Aye.”
“You knew I’d know him.”
“Suspected.”
Vale looked down at his coffee.
The question was there before he decided to ask it. Maybe it had been there since the refrigerator. Maybe since the porch. Maybe longer.
“How often do you do that?”
Ash did not move. “Do what?”
“Make yourself sound less precise than you are.”
Ash tapped ash off the cigarette. It fell toward Sara’s lavender bed, something she would have opinions about later.
The porch held very still. Somewhere in the yard, a chicken made a noise like a small engine failing to turn over.
“Often enough,” he said.
Vale looked at him.
Ash’s mouth did something that was not quite a smile.
“People get friendlier when they think ye came by a thing accidentally.”
“Reading isn’t suspicious.”
Ash gave him a look.
Vale had no answer for it.
The silence changed after that.
Not worse. Not better. More honest, maybe. Less furnished.
Vale took a breath.
“I’d like to hear more,” he said.
Something shifted.
Not Ash’s posture. He was still slouched, still tipped back, still barefoot and smoke-wreathed and apparently unconcerned with anything in the world. But the energy behind his eyes changed. The grin went away, which was notable because when Ash put the grin down voluntarily, the real thing was usually near.
“Would ye,” Ash said.
Vale waited.
Ash took another drink of the coffee Vale had made correctly.
Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, mug between his palms.
“So ye know the Plantation,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And Fischer’s borderers.”
“Yes.”
“And Glassie.”
Vale’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Yes.”
“Right. So don’t hear me sayin’ I’ve discovered somethin’ you missed. I haven’t.”
Vale sat back.
Ash rubbed his thumb along the mug handle.
“I’m sayin’ trades leave a different kind of record than documents do.”
That landed.
Ash saw it land and looked away, like he had not meant to throw it quite so cleanly.
“The paperwork tells ye who owned land,” he said. “Who moved where. Who got counted. What they were called when somebody else was holdin’ the pen. But a house tells ye what they were afraid of.”
Vale went still.
“Heat,” Ash said. “Fire. Weather. Scarcity. Kin too close together. Work too far from the door. Who needed privacy an’ who didn’t get it. What could burn. What had t’ stand. What they thought was worth carryin’ and what they left out because they couldn’t afford sentiment.”
Vale set his mug on the arm of the chair.
“Go on.”
The edge of Ash’s grin came back.
“There he is.”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m always smug.”
“You’re intermittently smug.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Ash.”
“Aye.” He took one last drag from the cigarette and crushed it out. “So. Th’ dogtrot. People look at it an’ see poverty first, because that’s what people do when a thing doesn’t look like what they were taught to respect. Two pens, open middle, roof over all of it. But th’ open middle’s the point. Air moves through. Heat breaks. Work moves through. People move through. The house breathes because it has to.”
Vale nodded.
“And the double-pen?” he asked.
Ash’s eyes warmed, quick and bright.
“The double-pen’s a different answer. Two rooms, shared chimney. Th’ chimney does the work for both. Everybody looks at one chimney and thinks lack. Couldn’t afford two. Couldn’t build two. But one spine in the middle can be better than two proud walls on the ends. Heat distribution’s better. Structural sense is better. The whole thing works as one system instead of two separate houses pretendin’ they’re connected.”
Vale exhaled slowly.
“You are going to connect this to something else.”
“I might.”
“Go on, then.”
Ash looked pleased in spite of himself.
“Right. So if the room is about permission—who gets let in, who gets heard, who gets counted—the house is about function. Who’s cold. Who’s hot. What burns. What holds. What lets people live. Burr wants the room. Hamilton wants the room badly enough t’ break his teeth on the door. But th’ house doesn’t care whether the room approves of it. The house either works or it doesn’t.”
Vale was listening with his whole body now.
Not performing attention.
Not managing Ash.
Listening.
“And mountain architecture,” Ash continued, “the good kind, not the nostalgic shite people sell on postcards... it’s not a failed version of elite architecture. It’s not a poor copy of the big house. It’s an answer t’ different questions. That’s what I mean by refusal architecture. Not refusal like pride. Refusal like survival. Ye don’t wait for their room t’ decide ye’re real. Ye build somethin’ that proves it by keeping people alive.”
Vale looked at him.
Ash looked back.
He was sitting on a porch in Johnson City, Tennessee, barefoot, in a t-shirt with a hole in the collar, smelling faintly of smoke and coffee and the house around him, and he had just drawn a line from political access through material culture to a philosophy of survival, and he was waiting—quietly, without pressure, without performing certainty—to find out if Vale thought he was ridiculous.
Vale did not.
That was the problem.
That was the gift.
That was the thing rearranging.
“The chimney in the middle,” Vale said. “You’re using it as a model for shared infrastructure.”
Ash’s mouth twitched.
“I’m sayin’ the chimney is a chimney.”
“And also everything else.”
“Aye.” The grin appeared properly now. “Because that’s how things work, isn’t it? Ye build a chimney because ye need heat. Then it turns out the thing giving heat is also holding the house up. The solution to one problem solves five others if ye stop tryin’ t’ keep every problem in a separate room.”
Vale stared at him.
Then he laughed.
It came out before he could manage it. Not the careful laugh, not the social laugh, the real one, surprised out of him by something he genuinely had not expected.
Ash’s grin went full and unguarded.
For a second, they were just two men on a porch laughing at a chimney metaphor, and the morning was simple.
“You,” Vale said, when he had recovered, “are going to make me reread half my undergraduate bibliography.”
“Good.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It was an accusation.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
Vale took another drink of coffee.
It had gone lukewarm.
He drank it anyway.
“I want to hear more,” he said.
Ash went quiet.
Vale did not hedge this time. Did not soften it into academic curiosity. Did not dress it up as politeness.
“I mean that. About the architecture. About the Plantation. About what you think trades record that paperwork doesn’t. I want to do this again.”
Ash looked out at the yard.
The chickens scratched stupidly at the dirt. The lavender shifted in the faintest wind. Inside, the dryer knocked once against the wall.
“Aye,” Ash said. “I’d like that too.”
He reached over and put his hand on the back of Vale’s neck.
Casual.
Warm.
The same way Ash touched people because touch was the grammar he had never learned to translate into anything less dangerous. Full contact, no warning, the weight of him arriving because that was what his body did with people it had claimed.
Vale had received that touch before.
A hundred times, maybe.
In kitchens, on porches, in passing. Ash’s hand on the back of his neck, shoulder, head, spine. Ash saying you’re mine in the loose family sense, the house sense, the if something comes for you it comes through me sense.
This time it landed differently.
This time it said: You brought coffee. You brought questions. You made the coffee right. I noticed.
Vale did not move away.
He leaned in.
Barely.
Enough.
They sat there until the coffee cooled completely.
Ash said, after a while, “There’s a book about the Scotch-Irish in the Shenandoah I’ve been meanin’ t’ get to, but the library doesn’t have it.”
“I can request it through interlibrary loan.”
“Ye don’t have t’ do that.”
“I know I don’t have to.”
Another silence.
Different from the first.
This one did not need counting.
“Brennan.”
“Yeah.”
“Ye made the coffee right.”
Vale looked at him.
“I’ve always known how you take your coffee, Ash.”
“Aye,” Ash said.
A pause.
“That’s what I mean.”
=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=
Sara came home at six to a house that smelled like dinner.
That was unusual enough to stop her in the front hall.
Dinner in this house was usually her job or a collective negotiation involving three people opening the fridge, one person suggesting takeout, Jax yelling “Cookout?” from another room, and Vale quietly producing a vegetable because he had seen the nutritional collapse coming six hours earlier.
But the house smelled like stew.
Real stew. Dutch oven stew. The kind that had been started hours ago and then neglected into excellence.
Sara dropped her keys in the bowl and heard voices on the back porch.
She went to the kitchen window and looked.
Ash and Vale.
Two chairs. Two mugs. A book open on the railing between them. Ash was talking with his hands, except one of them was on Vale’s shoulder, where it had apparently been long enough that Vale had stopped being aware of it and was leaning into the weight like a wall leaning into a buttress.
Vale was listening with the posture of a person hearing something genuinely new.
Not managing. Not monitoring. Not preparing to catch anything if it fell.
Just listening.
They were not talking about whether Ash had eaten, or slept, or overdone the sun, or any of the hundred practical things the house had learned to notice. They were not talking about Sara. They were not talking around her absence.
They were talking about chimneys.
Or Ireland.
Or both.
Sara caught a fragment through the window, Ash saying something about a deed tellin’ ye who held the land, not who knew where the spring was, and Vale answering, immediate and alive, with something about tax lists, cemetery clusters, and the difference between migration on paper and migration in family memory.
She did not need to understand it.
She did not need to be part of it.
She stood there for four seconds.
Not hiding.
Just watching.
The thing in her chest that she did not name, the one that meant the people she loved were loving each other without her in the middle, moved once and settled.
The house was working.
The chimney was doing what chimneys did.
Holding warmth in more than one room.
Sara went to the stove. Lifted the lid on the dutch oven. Tasted the stew. Added salt.
Through the window, Vale laughed again.
The real one.
Sara put the lid back on, went upstairs to change, and did not say anything.
The not-saying was the biggest thing she had said all week.
=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=
Two days later, a book arrived at the Johnson City Public Library via interlibrary loan from UNC Asheville.
The hold slip said:
CROWLEIGH, A.
Vale set it aside without comment.
When Ash came in that afternoon—ostensibly to return a Raymond Chandler that Jax had recommended and that Ash had read in two days and had opinions about—Vale slid the book across the counter.
“This came in for you.”
Ash picked it up.
Turned it over.
Read the back.
His eyes moved in the particular way they moved when he was already three pages into something and had not opened it yet.
“Brennan.”
“Yeah?”
“When I finish this, I’m goin’ t’ have thoughts.”
“I know.”
“Ye’ll want t’ hear them?”
Vale looked at him.
Then at the book.
Then back at him.
“I’ll put the coffee on.”
Ash tucked the book under his arm. Tapped the counter twice with his knuckles—the specific gesture that meant this is handled, I’ve got it, stop worrying—and walked out of the library with the walk Sara had opinions about, the amble, the baby-deer-in-steel-toed-boots walk.
Vale watched him go and thought, for the first time in all the years he had known Ashiel Crowleigh:
I don’t know what he’s going to say.
And then, unexpectedly, with something very close to happiness:
