A Morning Like This Read Free Page B

upstairs to his corner office and leather swivel chair, where
     he stared at the telephone on his desk as if he faced an enemy.
    Susan Roche. At the Elk Country Inn
.
    June had come to western Wyoming with a welcome, harrowing rush of hot weather and RVs and visitors who wanted to stalk bison
     and bear in Yellowstone. Outside his office window, stores stood with their doors open, the displays behind their polished
     glass fronts beckoning to sightseers with turquoise and elk-horn jewelry and hand-woven Shoshone rugs. A cavalcade of interstate
     traffic—campers and motorcycles and cars—inched forward on the street, setting a pace that would make any seasoned rush-hour
     driver crazy. An apple-red stagecoach trundled slowly past on bright yellow wheels, a group of tourists inside waving to passersby.
    David stared past the busy scene without seeing it. Of course he wouldn’t call her. He hadn’t written down the number.
    Any fool could look it up in the phone directory, you idiot. Right there under
Motels
in the Yellow Pages
.
    David grabbed the phone book, flipped open to the motel page, and ran his forefinger down the listings.
The Elk Country Inn
. He picked up a ballpoint pen and scribbled the familiar prefix, then traced over the number a second time, thinking about
     it, his apprehension rising.
    Abby always thought she could be so sure of me
.
    Finally he steeled himself, picked up the receiver, and dialed. A front-desk clerk answered in a singsong voice.
    “Elk Country Inn. How may I direct your call?”
    “Yes. I… uh.” David stared at the thick gold wedding band that encircled his ring finger. “Susan Roche, please. One of your
     guests.”
    Before he could say anything more, before he could ask “Is she there? Will you connect me?,” another series of clicks came,
     followed by a beeping and then a distant ring. Only one, which he didn’t expect her to answer.
    “Hello?” came a breathless voice.
    Anyone who’d braved the crowds in Jackson this time of year ought to be out driving through the parks or hiking some backcountry
     trail. Nobody should be sitting in a motel room, waiting beside the telephone.
    “Susan Roche? Is this Susan?”
    “Yes,” she said. “David.” And nothing more.
    David lifted his gaze from his wedding ring and saw the photograph of Abigail and Braden propped where he could always see
     it, framed in silver beside his lamp. In it, Abby squinted at the camera and leaned against a log wall, her Sunday shoes sunk
     to the hilt in springtime mud. She cradled Braden, wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket, in her arms. The picture had been taken
     on the sunny spring day he and Abigail had walked forward at their little nondenominational church to dedicate their son to
     the Lord.
    “You phoned my house,” he said to Susan. “You asked me to get in touch.”
    “I did.”
    One beat passed. Two. “So—” Nothing more. His throat ached for her to say something, anything that might help him know where
     to go with this or to let him off the hook. “You’ve come back to visit.”
    “I have.”
    “It’s been a long time, Susan.”
    “It has.”
    Heartrending silence while he waited, she waited, to see who might speak next.
    “A lot has changed since I saw you last,” he said finally.
    “Yes,” she agreed, her voice gone soft with what sounded like relief. “With me, too.”
    The pen in David’s hand, the one he’d used to write the number, read
The Jackson State Bank
. He clicked the ballpoint shut with his thumb, then clicked it open again. “This trip…” And then he stopped clicking. “Is
     it business or pleasure?”
    He heard her draw a deep breath.
    “I came to see you.”
    David stared at the picture on his desk. Abby beaming at the camera. Braden, so innocent and tiny, nestled in her arms. “I
     don’t think that’s possible.”
    “What I have to say can’t be done over the phone. I want to meet you somewhere. For lunch, maybe.”
    David turned to his