Neither desire canceled the other.

At the cabin, I made my mother’s apple cake from a stained card.

Silas measured flour while I peeled fruit.

He listened as I told him about the café, then asked whether I wanted to put the recipe box on the kitchen shelf.

I said yes.

There was room between his jars of screws and Mrs.

Bell’s blackberry preserves.

That little stretch of shelf held more meaning for me than all the black SUVs on our driveway.