Rowan nodded. She smiled and touched Bert’s hand in a gesture of good faith. She was surprised when he got up from his spot and hugged her on the other side of the table. She squeezed him back tight. He smelled like Old Spice and Irish Sprig Soap, man smells. Items that she never liked, and that she’d never have to feign interest in ever again. Once Bert had sat back down, Rowan’s appetite returned. Bert finished his coffee while she finished breakfast, talking aimlessly about other things they enjoyed, like favorite films and books.
“You ever read that author, oh, what’s her name…” Bert trailed off as he tapped his forehead. “She was a French writer. Wrote about a musical instrument, I think. She—”
“Gabrielle Roy,” Rowan said, knowing exactly what Bert was talking about. “The Tin Flute.
