Stopping to appreciate the distance he had traveled he reached his hands deep into his pockets, bewildered by the emptiness there. He opened his eyes into Maggie’s emerald gaze, his desire for her was immediate. "I was dreaming," he said and his voice was husky with sleep.

"I’ll bet." She was on her knees athwart his hips and staring down at him without sympathy for his fatigue. Long red curls hung away from the blushed beauty of her heavily freckled face.

Jesus, he thought, I’d like to reach for her. Her strength was real but her toughness was half-hearted, he knew, a weak bridge for the crossing that would never occur between them. He stretched his arms and yawned. "Something smells good."

"I’m cooking," she said.

"Is it night?"

"Does it look like night?"

"It looks like day," he laughed. "Afternoon."

She tangled her fingertips in his beard. "This looks good on you."

"I’m a good looking guy."

She laughed as she dropped onto her hands at his shoulders and her thick curls bounced close to his face. "You’re such an asshole," she smiled and her green eyes beamed. "You’re all windblown and beard and you smell like the sea. Do you want a shower?"

"Leave me like this."

"I’m serious."

"So am I.. How’s Beth?"

Maggie brightened. "She’s enjoying the summer. And us. We’re talking about marriage."

"Can I give away the bride?"

"Which one?"

She helped Mitchell transfer from the bed to his shower chair and he pushed slowly across the carpet to the roll-in shower in the bathroom. Soaking under a deluge of hot water he spit his toothpaste onto the blue and white floor tiles while the aching in his muscles was drenched with wet heat that steamed the mirrors. Maggie sat on the toilet to put on her yellow flip-flops. Then she stood behind Mitchell to wash his hair. He leaned back into her hands.

"You’re like an old hound dog," she said, scrubbing harder. "Out in the sun on a porch somewhere." She wiped shampoo onto his beard and worked it in and he bent his head under the water. Heat opened the pores in his face and eased the tightness in his neck and shoulders. She poured oil on his skin and worked it in with a loofah, exfoliating the miles, the tension, the unknowing. Everything but his exhaustion. He hooked his arms behind the chair handles and arched his back and Maggie worked the loofah down his spine with her hand on his shoulder. His head went up under the spray as he bent his head back, breathing steam, his body immersed in coats of hot water jetting over his skin. "Sweet Jesus, Maggie."

"You just needed a hot shower," she said, scrubbing.

In bed again he held his knee at his chest while Maggie changed the dressing on the pressure sore. He watched the concentration deepen in her brow and at the corners of her eyes. "Lots of drainage," she said.