The Lost Husband by Katherine Center Read Free Book Online Page A

another better. “James O’Connor,” she said, “meet Libby Moran.”
    “Happy New Year,” I said.
    O’Connor seemed a little surprised that it was New Year’s Day and frowned a second before getting back to introductions.
    O’Connor looked at Jean. “The long-lost niece,” he said, like I was part of some famous story. He held out his hand to shake.
    “Yes,” I said, taking it. “Lost, but now, you know, found again.”
    “At last,” O’Connor said, just as the kids clomped down the stairs and froze in their tracks at the sight of him.
    Abby stepped in front of Tank.
    “You protecting your brother?” O’Connor asked.
    “Yes,” Abby said.
    “Why?” O’Connor asked.
    “In case you are a beast.”
    O’Connor tilted his head and looked at Abby with appreciation. Then he said, “You’re very brave, big sister.”
    “She’s also very strong,” Tank piped up. “You do not want to make her angry.”
    “Good tip,” O’Connor said, his eyes still squinted.
    “Don’t worry,” Jean said to the kids. “He’s human under all that fur.”
    Everyone was ready for the day but me, so I sent the kids out to the yard and promised to meet O’Connor by the milking barn in fifteen minutes. But first I had to stop by the kitchen sink and wash—with very hot water and dish detergent—the hand that had shaken O’Connor’s. And not just once, but a second time for good measure. Just in case he did have fleas after all.

    Touring the farm, I got the feeling Jean had told O’Connor to start with the most basic of basics about farm life. When we walked past the barn, he said, “This is the barn.” When the goats gathered around us, he said, “These are the goats.”
    “I know what goats are,” I said. Then, more politely, “Do they have names?”
    “Depends on who you ask,” O’Connor said. “If you ask Aunt Jean, she’ll rattle off twenty names in twenty seconds.”
    “And what if I ask you?”
    “I’ll tell you they’re all named Goat.”
    I paused for a second, then said, “Why do you call her Aunt Jean?”
    O’Connor had bent down to inspect one of the goats’ ears.
    “I mean, she’s not your aunt,” I went on. Then I frowned. “Is she?”
    “No,” O’Connor said. “She’s not my aunt. But I’ve known her since I was a baby. She was friends with my mother.”
    I noted the “was” but didn’t say anything.
    “Plus,” he went on, “she’s my therapist.”
    “You have a therapist?”
    “Everybody in this town has a therapist,” he said, starting to walk me toward the back field. “And it’s Aunt Jean.”
    “All twelve thousand and one people in this town are clients of Aunt Jean’s?”
    “Well,” O’Connor said, “not all at the same time.”
    “Somehow,” I said, following, “when I think ‘tiny Texas town,’ I don’t think ‘therapy.’ ”
    “This town’s half hippies,” O’Connor said over his shoulder.
    “It is?” I asked.
    “Sure,” he said. “They came for the hot spring.”
    I’d heard of the hot spring, but I’d never been there. It had billboards on the interstate and everything. Some people believed it had healing waters, and Jean was one of them. She went for a soak every morning between yoga and breakfast.
    “The hippies came in the seventies,” he added, stopping to tie his shoe, “and started cross-breeding with the farmers.” When he looked up, there was a wry arch to his eyebrow—one of the only parts of his face I could see.
    “Making farmer-hippie hybrids?” I asked.
    “Yep,” he said, turning his attention to a chained gate. “Here’s the rule about gates on a farm,” he went on, suddenly all business. “Always leave them the way you find them. If they’re open, leave them open. If they’re closed, close them behind you.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Some of the latches are rusty,” he said, pointing one out for me to try. It was a simple metal clasp. But when I pressed on it, it didn’t give. He said, “Push