Best-selling author returns home in latest novel

I slather the rolls with butter and jam. Jack studies a bill from the mail, so I feed him the roll. He takes a bite; I turn to get a plate. Jack grabs my hand and licks the jam off my finger. I look into his eyes and see the exact color of the morning sky. He looks at me in that way he never looks at anyone else. With all we’ve been through, that look still delights me. “What are you doing?” I ask him, but after nineteen years of marriage, I have a pretty good idea.

He doesn’t answer; instead, he kisses my neck and loosens the belt on my robe, which conveniently drops to the floor — I say “conveniently” because I’m still holding the roll, which I lob into the sink like a fly ball. As Jack kisses me, my mind begins to race, never a good idea when you’re making love — the whole point is to stay in the moment — but I’m in my memory bank, trying to recall if we’ve ever made love in the kitchen. Pale blue ribbons of smoke are curling up from plastic windows on the junk mail; I watch until flames engulf the envelopes entirely and turn them to black flakes that float up the flue. I sit on the kitchen table and pull my husband close. The very idea of this makes me feel like laughing, but I don’t. I feel his heart racing with mine, and I think, This is what’s good about being married — knowing everything about someone and yet still being surprised before breakfast.

I hold Jack’s face, then I slide my hands down his neck and outline his broad shoulders, down his arms, muscular from all that construction work. He is drenched in sweat, so I pull him away from the fire. He smiles and takes in deep gulps of air. I listen to his heart, which beats loud and clear and true and, in an instant, too fast.

“I have to sit,” Jack whispers. I help him to the rocker by the hearth. He sits down and leans back in it, closing his eyes.

“Are you okay?” I go to the sink and run a glass of water and take it to him.

“I’m old.”

“No, you’re not. If you’re old then I’m old, and I’m not old.”

“Dream on.” He smiles.

I put my head to his chest. “Wait here,” I tell him.

I go to the hall closet and reach up to the high shelf and pull down Spec’s emergency kit from the Rescue Squad. Leola, Spec’s widow, gave it to me when he died. I’ve never opened it. Every time I go into the closet, it glares at me from the shelf, hand-painted by Spec in Day-Glo prison orange. I even remember the day he painted it. I was in his office, and he sat at his desk, which was covered in newspaper, and painted the tin box with a tiny brush like it was a Monet. I take it into the kitchen.

Jack is standing by the sink. “What are you doing?”

“Sit down. I’m going to take your blood pressure.”

Jack sits down in the chair. I open Spec’s emergency kit reverently. He always took such good care of the Rescue Squad equipment — the ambulance always gleamed, the sheets for the stretcher were always bleached a pristine white, his own vest was always pressed; he was very particular. The blood pressure gauge and cuff are nestled neatly among boxes of bandages, iodine, small bottles of tinctures, and tins of salves. I lift it out.

“Give me your arm,” I say. I strap the band around his arm. I pump until the numbers spin around like a betting wheel: 170/110. “Honey, you need to go to the doctor.” I loosen the band and try not to panic.

“What for?”

“You’re off the charts.”

“I feel fine.” He pulls me close. “You’re so good you almost killed me.”

“Not funny. How’s your vision? Blurry?”

“It’s normal,” Jack promises.

“I knew something was different. It sounds like an arrhythmia.” I put my ear to his chest again. My days on the Rescue Squad taught me a few things — Spec and I dealt with plenty of heart patients — and numbers like Jack’s are a pretty good sign that something is very wrong.

“Yoo-hoo!” Iva Lou calls from the front door.

“Just a second,” I holler back. I grab my robe and hand Jack his clothes. Jack makes a beeline for the downstairs bedroom and closes the door behind him. I sit down at the breakfast table. “Come on in!”

Iva Lou comes into the kitchen and puts her navy blue patent-leather purse down on the bench. She wears a navy blue suit with a slim skirt and peplum jacket, nipped at the waist by a matching belt with ruby- red grommets. Her high-heeled pumps are navy-and-white-striped with flat red patent-leather bows. Her blond hair is blown straight to her shoulders. If you didn’t know Iva Lou by her voice, you’d know her by her perfume. It’s not just one perfume either. It’s a grab bag — always strong but never too loud. Today she smells like vanilla and peaches with a whoosh of amber.

Excerpted from “Home to Big Stone Gap” by Adriana Trigiani Copyright © 2006 by Adriana Trigiani. Excerpted by permission of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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