A Morning Like This Read Free

protect his face beneath the covers, the licking would begin.
    “Okay, boy. Okay,” David objected every morning, although never so loud as to awaken Abigail. “I’m getting up. You win again.”
    This morning, as every morning, David yanked on a pair of baggy gray sweatpants that had seen better days, tugged on a faded
     O LD B ILL’S F UN R UN T-shirt, turned on the coffee to brew, and, without being completely lucid, started out with the dog for a jog.
    Even during the summer months in the mountains, at this altitude they could have a hard freeze during the night. The trail
     David now followed was crisp with frost, already melting away where the sun hit it, the shape of shadows still encased in
     ice. He left crushed prints behind him as he ran, a faultless marking of his footfalls where he followed the path along Fish
     Creek. Above him, early sun from the east had begun to paint the pleats and folds of the mountains, the sheer, chaste light
     of alpenglow spotlighting the hillsides in an ever-changing wash of gold and pink.
    For a little while at least, the morning belonged only to David.
    He could hear wind chimes singing from several patios as he passed. Farther along he saw his neighbor doing some early fly-fishing
     in the stream. The man waved briefly before going back to his casting. The sun glanced off the line with each arc he made,
     the tiny mayfly landing with precision upon quiet water. “Morning, David!”
    “Morning, Joe! Having any luck?”
    “I guess I should have stayed in bed. I think the fish are still asleep.”
    David slowed his long strides and turned toward home; he’d do well to leave time for a shower and a shave. Back he headed
     along the stream, past patios with cedar hot tubs and pretty wrought-iron gates. His feet pounded a hollow beat in syncopation
     with the clacking of Brewster’s toenails as they crossed the rickety wooden footbridge together. As he trod quietly into his
     house, reluctant to awaken Abigail or Braden, he spied the cake box waiting on the counter. It made sense, didn’t it? After
     working off those calories, he would eat cake for breakfast.
    He’d taken two huge bites when he noticed the flashing message light. Without thinking much of it, he pushed the play button.
    David couldn’t explain why the fear came. He knew something was wrong the moment he heard the clicking connection and the
     empty whirring, someone hesitating on the end of the line. He stopped chewing. For what seemed an eternity, no one spoke.
     Then, brittle, businesslike, a woman said, “Hello, David. This is Susan Roche.”
    Susan Roche
.
    For a moment he couldn’t place the name. He started chewing again.
    Then stopped chewing for the second time.
    Oh.
That
Susan Roche.
    The message continued. “I’m staying at The Elk Country Inn.”
    Elk Country Inn? Susan? In Jackson Hole?
    “Would you return my call as soon as you can?” And then, softly, “It’s imperative, David.
Please
.”
    Her careful voice went on to dictate a number, but David didn’t write it down. He stared at the machine, his anger growing.
     He turned it off before she even finished the sentence.
    How dare she do something like this?
    The slice of anniversary cake sat abandoned on the counter with two huge chomps taken out of it. Brewster stood over his bowl,
     panting, waiting to be served from the forty-pound bag that listed to one side in the corner. And David Treasure looked up
     to see his face reflected in the toaster beside him, his features mirrored and distorted in the dents of stainless steel.
     It was someone else’s face, someone who didn’t look at all like him.
    After so many years, how dare she turn up in Jackson and call me at my house?
    He fumbled for the delete button on the answering machine. The motion, which he made several times daily, evaded him now.
     Which button did he push? That one?
No
. This one?
    He hit the wrong button and the message began to repeat. “Hello, David. This is Susan