Miriam was sixty-eight, broad-shouldered, and wore her gray hair in a loose braid.
She introduced herself as the neighbor who lived two miles down the road.
“Thomas said you might need a friendly face,” she told me.
I nearly started crying again.
Instead, I invited her inside.
She looked around the kitchen with visible satisfaction.
“He got the cabinets right, then.”
“You helped him?”
“Me?
No.
I mostly argued with the contractors and brought sandwiches.
My brother handled the stonework.”
She looked toward the windows.
“Your husband was a stubborn man.”
I smiled.
“That he was.”
“First time he came back up here, I told him the cabin was better suited for raccoons than people.”
“What did he say?”
Miriam grinned.
“He said, ‘Then the raccoons will have to find somewhere else to live.'”
We drank coffee while her dog slept near the fireplace.
She told me Thomas had spent nearly two years restoring the property.
