Epilogue

EPILOGUE

It's the little things we sometimes don't notice that add that extra layer of richness to our lives. As the years make their indelible mark, those small gifts become even more meaningful. Time can take a toll if you let it. If you're wise, you'll embrace the good, forgive yourself for yesterday's mistakes, and keep your heart open for all those delicious little extras that come your way.

It's six P.M. and already fully dark when I close the back door against the gale and a flurry of snow. Outside, the blizzard is just getting started and I'm unduly glad to be out of the maelstrom. I hang my parka in the mudroom and take in the aromas of yeast bread and woodsmoke as I enter my big farmhouse kitchen. Tomasetti stands at the counter with his back to me, one-handedly slicing the bread I took out of the oven an hour earlier. On the counter, I see he's arranged grapes and thin-sliced beef around a wedge of the Stilton blue cheese we picked up at the Amish shop in town earlier. Next to the board, the bottle of tempranillo is breathing, two wineglasses waiting to be filled. I can hear the fire crackling from the hearth in the living room. Norah Jones warms the air with the whiskey magic of her voice.

The little things, I think, even though I'm all too aware that there's nothing small about this particular moment and I count my blessings.

"Anyone ever tell you you look good in my apron?" I say, coming up behind him.

"I get that a lot." He glances at me over his shoulder and winks. "Goats and chickens secure for the night?"

"The babies weren't too happy about being penned up, but they'll be thanking me in a few hours when the drifts are two feet high."

Frowning, he concentrates on the bread. Holding it in place with the elbow of his arm sling, he saws off a slice. "Caught the weather a few minutes ago," he says.

"I'm afraid to ask."

"The bad news is we're going to get six inches of snow and forty-mile-per-hour winds."

"And the good news?" I ask.

"We're going to get six inches of snow and forty-mile-per-hour winds." He looks at me at grins. "That's not to mention the lights have been blinking."

"I noticed." I snatch up a grape and pop it in my mouth. "Good thing we've got plenty of candles."

"Not to mention a roaring fire and an extra bottle of tempranillo."

"Might be a two-glass night."

I reach around him to hold the loaf in place so he can more easily slice. "Norah Jones is a nice touch, Tomasetti."

"I thought so," he says. "Not that I have an ulterior motive."

"Good thing because I'm not sure you can handle it with that cast and sling."

"I'm game to put it to the test if you are."

"Those are big words for a one-armed man."

Setting down the knife, he turns to me, wraps his uninjured arm around me, and gazes into my eyes, his expression turning thoughtful. "You had a nightmare last night."

"I didn't mean to wake you." I try to divert our attention back to the food, but he doesn't let me.

Tomasetti isn't one to dwell on or rehash a traumatic event. We're alike that way. We've seen more than our share, and we know life's too short to spend it being afraid. And so we deal with it, we put it to bed, and we move on.

"Despite what others might say," he says, "I'm a pretty good listener if you want to talk about it."

Needing a moment, I ease away from him, go to the bottle of wine and pour. Tomasetti picks up the charcuterie board and we carry everything to the table. He's already lit a candle.

He raises his glass. "Here's to six inches of snow and forty-mile-per-hour winds."

We clink our glasses together and sip. The wine is an exquisite blend of plum and dark cherry and it dances on my tongue like an exotic fruit.

I can tell by the way he's looking at me that he's waiting for me to talk. Somehow, he knows I need to.

"It wasn't the time I spent with Hofer that terrified me," I tell him. "It wasn't Clarence Raber or the water or the cold. It wasn't even the possibility that I might not make it."

He holds my gaze, nods.

"It was the not knowing if you were dead or alive." To my embarrassment, my voice quavers. "Tomasetti, I've never been that scared. Ever. And I've never felt such despair or desperation. It was huge and that scared me, too."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," he says. "You going to be okay?"

"I think so."

"If it gets to be a problem, you'll let me know?"

"That's the thing," I say. "I don't think there's a cure for this crazy love thing we have going on."

I can tell by the way he's looking at me that there's more on his mind. That he's got something to say and he isn't sure he's going to get it right and it's important that he does.

"You got something else on your mind, Tomasetti?"

"You mean besides this tempranillo and Stilton?" He asks the question lightly, but I don't miss the dance of nerves just beneath the surface. I feel those same nerves tingle inside me.

He reaches across the table with the hand of his uninjured arm and takes mine in his. "We've got a lot of love to go around," he says quietly. "Some to spare, maybe."

Something flutters in my chest and for a second, I can't quite catch my breath. For months, we've danced around the topic of starting a family. The idea titillates the part of me that has always wanted children. The idea terrifies the part of me that is a cop and knows too much about the dark side of a world that can be cruel to the innocent.

"We do," I say. "I think about it every day. It's a big step."

"Especially for us," he says. "Our backgrounds. The fact that we're cops. At the same time, I think both of us know that just about every step worth taking in this life is usually pretty damn big."

"That's a true statement." That flutter again. Only softer and warmer and centered in my chest.

"Something to think about." He looks down at the board. "In the interim, what do you say we dig into this Stilton and that Amish bread?"

"And maybe take a little time to mull everything else?"

"Mulling is good," he says. "Let's do that and see what happens."

I raise my glass to his. "To big steps."

"Big steps," he echoes.

And we sip.