The couple never did make it up to their second-floor bedroom that night in front of the fire. They slept on the living room floor, directly in front of the mantel, holding each other and covered by the warm, knitted afghan that is usually draped at the edge of the couch.
The sun is already up when Wren is awakened by the sound of the coffee machine brewing in the kitchen and the sounds of Lord chopping wood outside. As she watches him through the kitchen window, she can’t help but think of the ways the axe has been used while Lord was away, ways only she will ever know. She makes a conscious decision not to ruin a perfectly beautiful start to this calm, sunny day and she banishes the thoughts of severed limbs from her head just as quickly as they arrived.
Coffee is ready and Wren detects a hint of chicory among the freshly ground beans. It makes her smile to know that Lord likely picked up this special roast at the same specialty store where he found last night’s wine. As she pours herself a mug of the hot brew, Wren figures that if her husband is chopping wood outdoors, it will be a bit of time before he comes back in, so she decides to surprise him by making a nice breakfast.
As she sips, she reaches for a cookbook on a shelf that Lord constructed between two windows. Wren glances back towards the living room; it fills her with a deep sense of joy to have spent such time with her husband, joy Wren hasn’t felt for a long time because such worry and turmoil has surrounded them these last months.
Things Wren couldn’t tolerate. Lies, harm and mayhem all aimed at women just like her, brown women. It’s a poison that spreads and grows like alkali choking out the land. Now, however, Wren feels a sense of satisfaction knowing that she’s done what she can to stop it, secrets between her and God.
Wren smiles again as she looks at the afghan, now just a lump on the floor in front of the fireplace. Wren makes a mental note that she’ll tidy up in that room later. For now though, she’s decided that a quiche will be what greets her husband when he comes back in from chopping logs. The rose that Wren brought for Lord at the airport is already displayed in a vase and sunlight streams in through the kitchen window.
As the sweet aroma of caramelizing onions fills her kitchen, Wren runs her fingers across the amethyst pendant Lord attached around her neck last night before handing her a glass of wine. She’s always loved the purple stone, even more after reading that its healing properties include purifying the mind and clearing away negative thinking. That’s not the reason Lord purchased the gift, though. He’d just seen it in a shop window in downtown Winnipeg and thought it would look nice on his wife. He is also well aware that Wren loves gifts that come from Mother Earth.
One reason Lord decided to take a few days off this coming week is because he wants to help Wren get ready for a new show where her work will be featured. It’s a special time for any artist to have their own solo exhibit. He said he could see that the outdoor kiln was fired while he was away and says he’s proud of her for working again. Splitting logs this morning is his way of saying that he’ll be there for her, to help feed the fire and get her new pieces ready for the show.
“Wow, smells great in here,” Lord exclaims as he comes through the door.
Wren is popping the shrimp, cheese, asparagus and onion dish into the oven. Before taking off his boots, he grabs her from behind to give her a satisfying hug.
“But what smells even better, is the scent of you. You were wonderful last night,” he whispers into her hair.
Wren closes the oven door then turns to share in his embrace. “Oh, my love, you are all sweaty,” she says and giggles. “We have forty minutes before this properly bakes. Maybe you want to take a shower first,” she suggests, caressing his jaw.
“Maybe you want to come with me,” he says.
“Oh yes, you insatiable, handsome man. That can be done.”
Lord takes Wren by the hand and leads her up the stairs toward the master bathroom.
“You’re still wearing your coat. Here, let me get that,” Wren says as she seductively unzips his navy jacket.
“And you are still wearing your apron.” Lord runs his hand along the ponytail his wife always wears while cooking. “Let me get that.” Lord turns on the shower and the couple step in. They are naked, vulnerable, in love.
This is how it should be, Wren thinks. Trust and tenderness. She squeezes a dab of lavender-scented body wash in her palm, then caresses her husband. While sweat is rinsed away, their passion provides more heat than the cascading droplets of water. “You are so beautiful, Wren,” Lord whispers.
By the time they return to the kitchen, forty minutes has long passed, and the quiche is a little overcooked, but neither of them notice. They sit contentedly at the kitchen island where they have a view of sunlight gleaming off the fresh snow outside. A perfect start to a new day.