“He never forgets his lunch,” Sarah said, her fingers tightening around the cold metal of the mug. “Not when he has a twelve-hour shift ahead of him.”
Gloria pulled back the red cloth, revealing six golden rolls, but Sarah made no move to reach for one.
By noon, the clouds had turned the color of wet slate, bringing a steady drizzle that froze as soon as it touched the pavement. Sarah carried a heavy cardboard box of state reports across the post office parking lot, her boots slipping slightly on a patch of black ice near the curb.
A man in a heavy charcoal overcoat stepped out from behind a blue snowmachine trailer, his hand catching her elbow to steady her. It was Bob.
“Sarah, let me take that box for you,” Bob said, his voice carrying his usual measured, formal precision.
“I have it, Bob, thank you,” she said, shifting the weight of the cardboard against her ribs.
She noticed he was holding a thick manila folder pressed tight against his chest, his thumb nervously rotating a heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger. He tucked the folder under his arm, his eyes darting toward the post office doors.
“Good to see you,” Bob said, his smile quick and tight. “The winter road maintenance has been poor this week.”
“It has,” Sarah said. “Todd said the oil field road was nearly blocked yesterday.”
Bob did not answer, his eyes fixing on the glass doors behind her. He took a half-step backward toward his SUV, his keys clicking in his hand.
“We should get together for dinner sometime,” Sarah said. “You and Todd haven’t gone fishing since the salmon run closed.”
“Yes, well, things are quite busy at the office right now,” Bob said, his voice dropping a register. “Take care of yourself, Sarah.”
He turned and walked quickly toward his vehicle, leaving her standing by the mailbox with the heavy box in her arms.
