I put it on. It tinkles against the bones of my wrist as I walk down the hallway to Mom’s old room. My heart starts to beat fast, my breath quickens, but I don’t hesitate. I want to see him. I open the door.
The bed’s empty, the sheets pulled up in a messy way, like someone tried to straighten the covers in a hurry. No one’s here. I frown.
Maybe I took too long to come find him. Maybe he left.
I smell something burning.
I find Tucker in the kitchen, attempting and spectacularly failing to make scrambled eggs. He pushes at the blackened mess with a spatula, tries to flip it, burns himself, fights back a cuss word, and starts shaking his hand like he can get the pain off it. I laugh, and he whirls around, startled. His blue eyes widen.
“Clara!” he says.
My heart lifts looking at him. I walk up to him and take the spatula out of his hand.
“I thought you’d be hungry,” he says.
“Not for that.” I smile and grab a dish towel, pick up the frying pan, march it over to the trash can, and scrape the eggs into it. Then I go to the sink and rinse it out. “Let me,” I say.
He nods and pulls himself up onto one of the kitchen stools. He’s not wearing a shirt, just a pair of my brother’s old pajama pants. Even so he looks like Sunday morning, I think the expression goes. I try not to flat-out stare as I go to the refrigerator and get out a carton of eggs, crack them into a bowl, add milk, whisk it all together.
“How are you?” he asks. “Jeffrey told me you were sleeping.”
“You saw Jeffrey?”
“Yeah, he was here for a while. He seemed kind of distracted. He tried to give me an envelope full of money.”
“Uh, sorry?” I offer.
“You California yuppies think you can buy anything,” Tucker jokes.
And he is joking. He’s getting pretty fond of California yuppies.
“I’m good,” I say with a cough, to answer his initial question. “How are you?”
“Never felt better,” he says.
I stop whisking and look him over. He doesn’t seem changed, I think. He doesn’t look like any prophet I’ve ever heard of.
“What?” he asks. “Do I have egg on my face?”
“I’m not really hungry,” I say, pushing aside the eggs. “I need to talk to you.”
He swallows. “Please don’t let this be the part where you tell me what’s best for me again.”
I shake my head, laugh. “Why don’t you put on some clothes?”
“That’s a great idea,” he says. “But they seem to be missing. I guess they got thrashed beyond repair earlier. Maybe you could take me home real quick.”
“Sure.” I walk over to him and take his hand, draw him off the stool. He looks at me uncertainly.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
I delight in his quick intake of breath as I reach up and cover his eyes with both of my hands. I call the glory, a warm, pulsing circle of light around us. I close my eyes, smiling, and send us both to the Lazy Dog. To the barn. On purpose.
“Okay, you can look,” I say, and take my hands away, and the light slowly fades around us, and he gasps.
“How did you do that?”
I shrug. “I click my heels three times and say, ‘There’s no place like home.’”
“Uh-huh. So … you think this is your home? My barn?”
His tone is playful, but the look he’s giving me is dead serious. A question.
“Haven’t you guessed by now?” I say, my heart hammering. “My home is you.”
He’s got a kind of laughing disbelief all over his face. He clears his throat. “And I don’t feel sick with the glory this time. Why is that?”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” I promise. “Later.”
“So,” he says. “Does poking that guy through the heart with a sword mean you don’t have to run away now?”
“I’m not running away.”
He grins. “That’s the best news I’ve ever heard. Ever.” He puts his hand on my waist, pulls me closer. He’s going to kiss me. “So did you really mean all that stuff you said when I was a dead man?”
“Every word.”
“Could you say it again?” he asks. “My memory’s a little fuzzy.”