Part 8.2

The sun nearly peeked over the horizon when she unlocked the front door. Harvest lay on the cold tile in the entryway. He looked up.

“Good morning,” he greeted her. “How was your night?”

“Shut up,” Eleanor growled. He watched her take the stairs two at a time to check on the children. Safe in their beds and deeply asleep, she reassured herself that nothing had disturbed them during her absence. Back downstairs, she stepped over Harvest.

He rose to follow her into the kitchen. “Where were you?”

She went to the counter next to the fridge and thumbed through a small pile of mail that had accumulated there.

“Where were you?” he asked her again.

“What do you mean, where was I? How do you not know?”

He indicated fresh slices on her forearm. “You dismissed us before you left.” He was grumpy.

Eleanor glanced at her arm. “Huh.”

She could hear a smile in his voice. “You don’t remember, do you?”

She continued to flip through the envelopes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What happened?” he persisted.

“Nothing.”

“Well, the answer can’t possibly be nothing, otherwise you wouldn’t mind telling me.”

Eleanor didn’t reply. Her handwritten name on a brown greeting card envelope made her pause. She turned it over and ripped it open, pulling out the card. On the front was a photo of two prairie dogs, standing on their hind legs with their front paws together. She opened the card and then smiled.

“What?” Harvest was curious.

Her eyes scanned the card. She closed it to look at the picture. “Jonathan is coming to visit.”

“Jonathan?” asked Harvest. “What does he want?” The idea didn’t please Harvest, which suited her just fine.

“He wants to see me. He’s coming in four weeks.” She went to the calendar and made a note.

“Meh,” replied Harvest, tapping his fingers on the wall in a way that reminded her of the satyr.

“There are only a couple of hours before the kids have to get up,” she said, talking to herself. “Maybe I should try to get some sleep.”

Harvest brightened. “That’s a fine idea.”

Eleanor looked at him. “Or maybe I’ll just read for a while.”

His shoulders drooped. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Eleanor wanted to laugh. In the front room, where her shelves of books stood against two walls she selected a volume and curled up on the couch. Harvest sighed. He peered through the curtains at the sky.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to talk about where you were?”

Eleanor nodded. “Absolutely sure.”

“We thought maybe you had done something rash.”

She kept her voice steady. “I don’t behave rashly. You know that.”

“Yes,” he replied. “But maybe someday you will. I hope I’m there to see it.”

She sighed. “You see everything Harvest. Why would that ever change?”