He did not flinch, but his fingers traced the edge of the paper-wrapped package, his thumb smoothing a crease in the tissue.
“Let the lawyers do what they must,” he said, his voice unusually soft, almost like the voice he used when we were teenagers walking the Oak Creek reservoir trail. “I only want to talk about us today, Clara.”
He held out the bundle toward me, his hand steady in the morning light.
“I was terrible to you yesterday, and I cannot rest knowing I hurt you when you have been my only comfort.”
I hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand, then took the package and peeled back the thin white tissue paper.
Inside was a small, heavy jewelry box made of dark, polished walnut, with a delicate wild rose carved into the lid, its petals curving gracefully around the wood grain.
“I wanted to give you something beautiful, dearest, to show you my heart is still yours,” he said.
He rubbed his left temple with his thumb, a gesture that usually made my chest tight with suspicion, but for a second, my defenses softened.
The smooth wood felt cool and substantial against my palms, reminding me of the cedar chests he used to build in his workshop behind the old high school when we had nothing but time.
“It is lovely, Ben,” I whispered, tracing the curve of a carved petal with my index finger.
“I had one of the night-shift nurses pick it up from the artisan shop near the town square,” he said, watching my face closely. “I wanted you to have something real from me, something that lasts.”
“With what money?” I asked, looking down at the intricate carvings. “I thought all the construction accounts were locked under the court order.”
“I had a little cash tucked in the glove box of my old work truck,” he said, leaning back against his pillows and letting his hands fall to his sides. “Just enough for this. I wanted you to know I was thinking of you.”
I smoothed my thumb over the rosebud, wanting so badly to believe the gentleness in his eyes, wanting to believe the man I had known for forty years was still in there.
“Thank you,” I said, setting the box gently on the bedside table next to the plastic water pitcher.
“We have a long road ahead, Clara, and I want to make sure you are taken care of, no matter what happens to me.”
His gaze was steady, but he looked away when the door clicked open.
A physical therapist entered with a walker, her plastic badge jingling against her scrubs, and I stepped out to give them room for his morning exercises.
Downstairs, the St. Jude cafeteria was nearly empty at two in the afternoon, the fluorescent lights humming overhead in the vast, quiet space.
I sat at a corner table with a cup of coffee that cost two dollars and fifty cents, staring at the gray plastic tray and trying to organize the thoughts that had been spinning in my head since dawn.
“Mind if I join you, Clara?”
Dr. Paulson stood there, holding a thick manila folder, his gold pen tapping a rapid, impatient rhythm against his clipboard.
“Please,” I said, pulling my silver ring around my finger.
