January 5th, 2018

The last customer had left an hour ago, leaving a trail of melted snow on the floor behind him that we had to clean up. The chairs were all upside down on the tables, the floor was a mess of salt and dried snow, but the café was quiet.

I stood by the back door, pulling on my heavy work boots.

"Are you sure you have to go?" Katrina's voice cut through the quiet.

I looked up and she was leaning against the door frame, a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder. Her hair was escaping its bun again.

"Ms. Gable's fence won't fix itself," I said, tugging on the final lace.

"Sophia and I are going to the gym after we finish up here. You could come."

I let out a humourless laugh.

She was right in front of me now. "You could spot me," she whispered, her eyes holding mine. "Or we could just go home early."

"Gotta go, Kat."

She sighed. "I know."

I leaned in and kissed her. "Don't wait up," I rumbled against her lips.

She pulled back. "Be careful."

I gave her a short nod, then turned and pulled open the back door. A blast of cold air hit me, and I stepped out into the fading afternoon light and made my way towards the truck.

The truck's heater was fighting a losing battle against the mountain chill. The short drive was a familiar one, a route I'd taken a dozen times for one odd job or another. Ms. Gable lived in one of the older houses on the edge of town.

I pulled the truck into her gravel driveway, the tires crunching loudly. She was already at the door, a small figure wrapped in a thick wool cardigan.

I killed the engine and got out, slamming the door shut.

"Afternoon, Ms. Gable," I said, giving her a short nod as I walked up the path.

"Raj, thank you for coming so quickly."

"No trouble."

She led me around the side of the house. The damage was exactly as she'd described on the phone. A section of the old wooden fence, maybe six feet long, had been blown clean off its posts.

"I've got the new panels in the garage," she said, wringing her hands. "Howie always kept extra."

"I'll get it sorted," I said, already shrugging off my coat and tossing it onto a dry patch of porch. "Won't take long."

The old post was rotten at the base. I used a shovel to dig around it, the metal biting into the frozen ground. The muscles in my back and shoulders burned with the effort. It was a good feeling. A simple problem. A clear solution.

I hauled the new post from the garage. I set it in the hole, checked it for level, then began shovelling the frozen earth back around it, tamping it down with the flat end until it was solid.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the mountains, by the time I was nailing the last of the new panels into place. I stood back, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow with the back of my glove.

Ms. Gable came out with two steaming mugs. "Hot chocolate," she said, pressing one into my gloved hands.

"Thank you," I replied, the warmth seeping through the fabric.

We stood there for a moment in the quiet, looking at the fence.

"It looks good," she said. "Will it hold?"

"Hope so," I said back to her, punctuated with a sip of the hot chocolate.

She led me back to the front door. "Come in. I'll get your payment."

I followed her inside. The air was warm and smelled faintly of lavender. She gestured toward a small wooden bench in the entryway. "Just one moment."

I sat, pulling off my wet gloves and setting them beside me. The house was dark, the curtains drawn, the furniture shrouded in white sheets. I heard the soft rustle of papers from another room.

She returned a moment later, holding out an envelope. "Here you are, dear."

I took it and stood up. "Appreciate it."

I walked back out into the cold, getting into the truck, slamming the door shut. I ripped open the envelope after settling in.

Inside was a thick wad of cash. I thumbed through it. Hundreds. Fifties. It had to be at least eight hundred dollars.

I shoved the cash back into the envelope and got out of the truck. I stomped back up the path and knocked on the door.

Ms. Gable opened it, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Is everything alright?"

I held out the envelope. "This is too much."

She looked at the envelope, then back up at my face. "It's what the job is worth."

"No, it's not," I said, my voice firm. "Three hundred. That's fair. I'll take three hundred."

She let out a weary sigh.

"I'm an old woman," she started. "My husband is gone. My children live in Toronto and call me twice a year, if I'm lucky. I don't go anywhere. I don't buy anything." She looked around. "What am I going to do with more money? Buy a fancier grave?"

She turned her gaze back to me. "Money is for the young."

She reached out and gently pushed my hand, holding the envelope, back toward my chest. "Please. Let an old woman feel useful. Take the money."

I looked at her face, at the lines etched around her eyes and mouth. There was no arguing with quiet dignity.

"Alright," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "But if you ever get tired of the quiet, you should come by the café. Coffee's on us. Anytime."

A smile spread across her face. "I might just do that."

I gave her a short nod and walked back to the truck. "Take care, Ms. Gable."

"You too, dear."

The drive back home was soothing to the pain that was in my back. Something that had snuck in around when I hit forty.

The truck's tires finally crunched over the gravel of our driveway. I killed the engine and heard the lonely howl of a coyote.

I pushed open the door to the trailer, and the warmth hit me like a warm blanket. My shoulders, tense from the drive and the day's labour eased by a fraction.

I found her at the kitchen counter, her back to me. She'd changed out of her work clothes into a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on her hips and a thin camisole. She was humming something, her hips swaying slightly as she worked a pan.

I shrugged off my coat, hanging it on the hook by the door. I didn't say a word. I just walked up behind her, and wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest.

She leaned into me, her head tilting back to rest on my shoulder.

"How was the gym?" I rumbled, my face buried in her hair. It smelled like her coconut shampoo.

"Good," she said. "Sophia tried to get me to sign up for a spin class. I told her I'd rather be waterboarded."

I let out a low chuckle. My hands slid up from her waist, tracing the soft skin of her stomach, feeling the muscles tense and then relax under my touch.

She turned her head, her lips brushing against my ear. "And how was Ms. Gable?"

"Fine. Fixed her fence."

My hands continued their slow exploration, my thumbs tracing the underside of her breasts.

"She paid me too much," I murmured.

"How much?" she asked.

"Eight hundred."

Katrina stilled.

"Tried to give it back, but she didn't want it."

She turned in my arms, her hands coming up to rest on my chest. "What did she say?"

"Said money was for the young."

Katrina reached up, her fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw, her thumb stroking my beard. "Well," she said softly. "The young have tuition we have to pay for."

She leaned in and kissed me. Her hands slid up from my chest, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck.

I lifted her effortlessly, setting her down on the cool granite of the kitchen counter. She let out a soft gasp as her feet left the floor. I stepped between her thighs, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer.

My mouth left hers, trailing a line of hot kisses down her neck. I nipped at the sensitive skin there, a low moan escaped her lips. My hands slid under her camisole, my rough palms gliding over her back.

"Raj," she breathed, her hands fisting in the fabric of my shirt. "The food."

I growled against her skin. "Fine."

I lifted her off the counter, setting her back on her feet.

I turned and walked to the fridge, pulling out two bottles of beer. I twisted the cap off one and handed it to her.

"To Ms. Gable," she said.

I clinked my bottle against hers. "To Ms. Gable."

I took a long swallow. I watched her over the rim of my bottle. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving mine until she turned back to the stove. I took another pull from my beer, then turned and walked into the living room.

The living room had a worn leather sofa that had moulded itself to our bodies over the years, a heavy oak coffee table I'd built myself, and the television. I sank into the sofa, the leather groaning under my weight, and pointed the remote.

"-disgraced producer is now facing multiple civil lawsuits, with new allegations surfacing almost daily," a stern-faced anchor was saying.

I took another swallow of beer.

"You're going to give yourself an ulcer," Katrina's voice called from the kitchen.

I mumbled something back, not taking my eyes off the screen.

A few minutes later, she appeared in the doorway, holding two plates. The aroma of grilled chicken followed her. "Turn that garbage off."

"It's the news."

"It's poison," she said, walking over and setting the plates down on the coffee table. She leaned over and snatched the remote from my hand turning the television off.

"We just paid for that TV, need to use it eventually," I said back.

"And I just cooked you dinner," she shot back, handing me a plate. "Eat."

I looked down at the food. Chicken tikka, grilled to perfection, with a side of fluffy basmati rice and a creamy raita.

She sat down beside me on the sofa, tucking her legs under her. She took a bite, her eyes closing in appreciation. "God, I'm a good cook."

I didn't argue. I took a bite of the chicken. The spices burst on my tongue. She was a good cook.

"I was thinking maybe we could update the menu for spring."

"Mmm," I grunted around a mouthful of rice. "With what?"

"Maybe some cold brew. People love that stuff."

"They love your cha." I finished my chicken, setting my fork down. "That's more work, Kat. More ingredients. More training for Sophia."

"It's not more work," she insisted. "It's smart business. We can't just keep doing the same thing and expect to grow."

"We're not trying to grow. We're trying to stay afloat."

Her fork clattered onto her plate. "Is that all you see? A sinking ship?"

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant," her voice was rising now.

I pushed myself off the sofa. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" she stood up too, her hands on her hips. "You've been miserable since we left Vancouver. You hate the town, you hate the customers, you hate the work. The only thing you seem to enjoy is fixing stuff for people."

"It's what I'm good at," I growled.

"It's what you're hiding behind," she shot back.

The silence that followed was heavy.

"I'm going for a walk," I said, my voice flat.

I didn't wait for a reply. I just turned and walked to the door, pulling on my boots and my coat.