Rowan scans my face for long seconds before he finally says something. “When I would visit as a kid, Nana made us go to church every Sunday. Pops didn’t grumble too much because he was used to it, but I thought it was epically boring.”
A knowing smile splits his features like a happy memory just downloaded into his brain unexpectedly.
“Nana was about the size of a teacup, barelyhit five feet. And I remember Pops kept a briefcase in the back of the truck.” He pauses, chuckling to himself. “The guy’s never been within missile range of a white-collar career a day in his life, but he had this empty briefcase he’d carry into church just so Nana would have something to set her feet on when she sat down.”
“Stop it!”
“I know! Disgustingly cute, right?”
“So gross.”
We exchange a smile.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “most of what I remember about church is that briefcase.” He blinks down at our intertwined hands.
I should let go. Maybe he should. Neither of us do.
Rowan clears his throat. “Except for this one time, the pastor was preaching a message about hope. And he said something I recognized from this needlepoint thing Nana had hanging on the wall at their Boulder house. I grew up staring at it but I never?—”
“We’re just gonna gloss over the part where you casually drop that your grandparents have two homes?”
He flashes me a dry look. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“You wanna know what the needlepoint said or not, Hannah?”
“I’m gonna need the big scary military man to say ‘needlepoint’ again.”
“Hannah.”
“Rowan.”
“Shall I go on?”
I open my palm between us as if to saybe my guest. “What did the needlepoint wall thingy say?”
Elbow propped on the arm rest, I set my chin on the fist of my free hand, and give him my undivided attention. His thumb sweeps over my knuckles. I look down at the contact at the same time he does. When I lift my eyes a moment later, his are still locked on the spot where he’s touching me.
He swallows hard before meeting my gaze. “It said ‘hope is an anchor for the soul.’ The pastor said it again at my dad’s funeral.” A timid smile curves one corner of his mouth. “When the service was over, like any eight-year-old who doesn’t know the art of good timing, Iasked Nana to explain what it meant while Mom was crying on her shoulder.”
Rowan hesitates, head dipped low. I squeeze his hand and he sniffs sharply.
“What did she say?” I urge, coaxing him back up.
A deep breath. “She said without hope to hold on to, our joynowwould float away.” His eyes pierce mine, so resolute and strong, it’s impossible to miss what he says next. “Her only child’s casket had just been lowered into the ground and she was holding his burial flag in her arms…and she had this peace about her that seemed unfathomable.”
I imagine the watery smile I give him looks a lot like what his Nana’s did then.
“She said sheknewshe would see her son again and that hope helps us hold on to the good things life has for us.” He looks to the lake and then up to the sky. “And, I don’t know, when I imagine her up there with Dad, it doesn’t hurt as much.”
Soft, slow tears spill over, but they aren’t the devastated kind. They’re a comfort. Cathartic even.
“If there’s a chance Gwyn and Maddy are up there together,” he says, dragging a thumb under my left eye, then my right. “I think that’s a hope worth holding on to.”
“Hope is an anchor for the soul,” I whisper, more for me than him. I let the words ruminate on my tongue like a prayer.
Nothing is said after that. We just lean back in our chairs, hands interlocked, gazes transfixed on the stars above, as every word, every secret, every mindless touch and unspoken thought sits exposed like an open confessional. It’s raw and a little scary. But it’s also beautiful.
Mom’s always said it’s the best things in life that make the least amount of sense. That the universe has a knack for surprising us when we least expect it.