“I love you too, Edward Rogers.” She pecks me once, twice. “Now go put chains on that ridiculous truck so my mother doesn’t call the National Guard.”
We suit up and step into a world remade.
The sky is a paper-thin blue. Snow glitter-squeaks under our boots. The cabin roof wears a white cap and the chimney is breathing steady.
My truck sits humped like some sleeping animal, half-buried with snow. I brush off the hood, pop the box with the chains.
Eventually, it's ready and we test the engine.
The old Ford coughs, then rumbles awake. I let it idle, heat chugging through the vents, and we go back inside to wait for the plow.
While the truck warms, we do, too—hands around mugs, bodies around each other, plans spread out on the dining table. I flip over a paper sack and start a list in block letters:
Window glass + glazing
Penny’s studio: 2x6s, insulation, north windows, deep sink
Gallery frames (mill oak)
Carve sign
Curtains (not despair)
Fairy lights (God help me)
She adds: 'Hot cocoa for customers' and, beneath it, 'Edward in a tie?' with three obnoxious hearts. I underline the tie and draw a skull next to it. She cackles.
The radio on the shelf crackles to life at noon with the flat voice of the county driver announcing the ridge road’s open to one lane.
I tighten my boot laces and Penny pulls her hat down over her ears. We’re halfway to the door when she stops, turns, and looks at the cabin the way I used to… like a place I was serving time in.
Only, when she does it, she smiles.
“Home,” she says, simple as that.
The word lands in me and settles right over my heart.
“Home,” I repeat. “Ours.”
We make it to the main road behind a plume of thrown snow and follow the plow down the switchbacks. At the ranger station we use the landline. Penny’s mom goes from frantic to crying to suspicious in under thirty seconds until Penny says, “He’s nice, Mom,” and I make a noise that might be a laugh and might be a threat.
We promise we’ll come by after the roads are cleared properly, that we’re fine, that yes, there wasawindow, and no, we’re not dead.
I get some supplies to fix the window and on the way back up, the truck works like an animal, chain links flashing in the slush. When we roll into the yard, I kill the engine and the silence is big and good.
Penny doesn’t get out right away. She turns in her seat and studies me like one of her sketches.
“What?” I ask.
“You,” she says. “Just… you.” Then she grins. “C’mon, mountain man. We’ve got a window to fix and a sign to design.”
We unload and inside my cabin, I set the glass on sawhorses, warm the glazing putty near the stove. Penny sweeps the last stubborn shards into a dustpan and hums some pop song under her breath that I pretend to hate.
We work elbow to elbow until light thins and the new pane sits snug and true in the frame. I test the latch and it clicks perfectly.
Penny leans on my shoulder. “Good?”
“Good,” I say.
