Excerpt from Jack by Marilynne Robinson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Just at the farthest edge of the circle of light she paused, looking at the darkness beyond it. So he said, "You would be safer if you'd let me watch out for you."

She said, "I wish you would get up off that grave and let me see you, then. It's strange talking to someone you can't see."

All right. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. "I'll be a minute," he said. "I'm putting on my tie."

She laughed and looked around at him. "You really are, aren't you."

"Indeed I am!" He was happy suddenly, because she had laughed. Feelings ought to be part of a tissue, a fabric. An emotion shouldn't be an isolated thing that hits you like a sucker punch. There should be other satisfactions in life, to maintain perspective, proportion. Things to look forward to, for example, so one casual encounter in a cemetery wouldn't feel like the Day of Judgment. He had let himself have too few emotions, so there wasn't much for him to work with. But here he was, abruptly happy enough that he would have trouble concealing it. He came down the slope sidelong because the grass was damp and slippery, but almost as if there were a joke in the way he did it. I'm imitating youth, he thought. No, this feels like youth, an infusion of something like agility. Embarrassing. He had to be wary. If he made a fool of himself, he'd be drinking again.

"This is quite a surprise," he said, standing in the road, in the light. "For both of us, no doubt."

She said nothing, studying his face forthrightly, as she would certainly never have studied anyone in circumstances her manners had prepared her for. He let her look, not even lowering his eyes. He was waiting to see what she would make of him, as they say. And then he would be what she made of him. He might sit down beside her, after all, cross his legs and fold his arms and be affable. At worst he'd go find that half cigarette he had dropped in the grass, which was damp, not wet. Once she was out of sight. He was pretty sure there were still three matches in the book in his pocket. And she would walk away, if she decided to. Her choice. The darkness of her eyes made her gaze seem calm, unreadable, possibly kind. He knew what she saw, the scar under his eye, which was still dark, the shadow of beard, his hair grazing his collar. And then his age, that relaxation of the flesh, like the fatigue that had caused his jacket sleeves to take the shape of his elbows and his pockets to sag a little. Age and bad habits. While she read what his face would tell her about who he really was, she would be remembering that other time, when for an hour or two she had thought better of him.

She said, "Why don't we sit down?"

And he said, "Why not?" And as he sat down he plucked at the knees of his trousers, as if they had a crease, and laughed, and said, "My father always did that."

"Mine, too."

"I guess it's polite, somehow."

"It means you're on your best behavior."

"Which in fact I am."

"I know."

"Which can fall a little short sometimes."

"I know that well enough."

He said, "I really would like to apologize."

"Please don't."

"I've been assured that it's good for the soul."

"No doubt. But your soul is your business, Mr. Boughton. I'd be happy to talk about something else."

So she was still angry. Maybe angrier than she had been at the time. That might be a good sign. At least it meant that she'd been thinking about him.

He said, "I'm sorry I brought it up. You're right. Why should I trouble you with my regrets?"

She took a deep breath. "I'm not going to get into this with you, Mr. Boughton."

Why did he persist? She was reconsidering, taking her purse and her bouquet into her lap. Could that be what he wanted her to do? It wouldn't be self-defeat, precisely, because at best there would be only these few hours, tense and probationary, and then whatever he might want to rescue from them afterward for the purposes of memory. That other time, when the old offense was fresh, she had seemed to regret it for his sake as much as her own. He had seen kindness weary before. It could still surprise him a little.

Excerpted from Jack by Marilynne Robinson. Copyright © 2020 by Marilynne Robinson. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.