through his window, he envisioned a Hieronymus-Bosch-like scene: a distorted seascape, a monstrous whale with seamen dangling from its teeth, their feet kicking, arms flailing. Not his sort of painting, but it would be effective with the provincials.
The blond boy gave an exaggerated sigh of relief as the last tack secured the canvas to the wood. Then Miss Calder propped the frame, as tall as she and at least eight feet wide, against the back wall and surveyed it critically. The boy, however, was watching her. Not her brother after all, Tristan decided, annoyed. A brother wouldn't stand quite so close or watch her so intently or reach out and brush the stray curl back from her cheek like that.
Miss Calder only pushed another tack into the canvas frame and raised her hammer. "Cris, don't crowd me, or I shall have to hit you after all." Sullenly he drew away, and with a few swift blows she dealt with the last tack.
With this delicate operation concluded, Tristan went through the great rustic plank doors and, ignoring the boy entirely, said, "Miss Calder, I thought I would find you here."
She turned, startled. Her expression, before she assembled it into the familiar cheerful lines, was one of dismay, and he determined then and there that he couldn't abide that, couldn't let her respond so to his presence. If the words twisted his throat, he would apologize for his inadvertent offense; he would say what he must to make her regard him as she had when first they met, with that open willingness to be pleased.
The boy made no such attempt to hide his emotions. He took the hammer from Miss Calder and hefted it, more boyish than ever as he favored Tristan with a hard look, as if he meant to challenge him to a duel with building tools. No, he was most definitely not her brother.
"Yes, the lumber was delivered today, and I put Crispin right to work." So saying, Miss Calder put the paper twist of tacks into Crispin's free hand, abjuring him, "You be careful with those now. I don't want the children stepping on them."
The boy flushed dark, and Tristan knew an unwilling sympathy for him, treated so casually, as if they were brother and sister after all. But that was better, Tristan thought as she made swift introductions, never really looking at him, than to be treated as a stranger by the girl who had never known a stranger.
Crispin acknowledged him with a barely civil nod, then crossed to a stack of lumber and pulled a six-foot board off the top. "Come on, Charity. You said we had to make something to look like Jonah's boat or the children will never agree to rehearse."
Miss Calder gave Tristan a swift, unreadable glance from under her lashes before she replied. "Don't bother, Cris. I decided just to borrow a rowboat. But you can start building booths. We'll need a dozen at least for all the concessions." She untied the scarf from her hair, shook free the tangle of curls, then rolled down her sleeves. "I think I've mangled enough of my fingers for the day, but I'll go home and wake Barry and send him over to help you!"
Tristan noted that she did not bother to ask for his help, and, provoked, he broke in. "Perhaps I can walk with you then." She opened her mouth, and he said what he knew would forestall her demurral. "You mentioned that you needed someone to paint the backdrop of the whale. I have thought of a rather dramatic scene, but I don't know whether it would be appropriate for Midsummer."
His volunteering came as a surprise to them all, an unwelcome one to Crispin, who immediately said with some belligerence, "Charity, I told you I could paint a whale. Anyone can paint a whale. You don't need," his youthful voice dripped with sarcasm, "the Royal Academy to paint a whale."
Tristan ignored him, for the impulsive offer had done its job. Miss Calder was regarding him more charitably now; in fact, she even smiled at him as she gathered up her basket and donned her bonnet, leaving the ribbons undone to tangle with her dark
The blond boy gave an exaggerated sigh of relief as the last tack secured the canvas to the wood. Then Miss Calder propped the frame, as tall as she and at least eight feet wide, against the back wall and surveyed it critically. The boy, however, was watching her. Not her brother after all, Tristan decided, annoyed. A brother wouldn't stand quite so close or watch her so intently or reach out and brush the stray curl back from her cheek like that.
Miss Calder only pushed another tack into the canvas frame and raised her hammer. "Cris, don't crowd me, or I shall have to hit you after all." Sullenly he drew away, and with a few swift blows she dealt with the last tack.
With this delicate operation concluded, Tristan went through the great rustic plank doors and, ignoring the boy entirely, said, "Miss Calder, I thought I would find you here."
She turned, startled. Her expression, before she assembled it into the familiar cheerful lines, was one of dismay, and he determined then and there that he couldn't abide that, couldn't let her respond so to his presence. If the words twisted his throat, he would apologize for his inadvertent offense; he would say what he must to make her regard him as she had when first they met, with that open willingness to be pleased.
The boy made no such attempt to hide his emotions. He took the hammer from Miss Calder and hefted it, more boyish than ever as he favored Tristan with a hard look, as if he meant to challenge him to a duel with building tools. No, he was most definitely not her brother.
"Yes, the lumber was delivered today, and I put Crispin right to work." So saying, Miss Calder put the paper twist of tacks into Crispin's free hand, abjuring him, "You be careful with those now. I don't want the children stepping on them."
The boy flushed dark, and Tristan knew an unwilling sympathy for him, treated so casually, as if they were brother and sister after all. But that was better, Tristan thought as she made swift introductions, never really looking at him, than to be treated as a stranger by the girl who had never known a stranger.
Crispin acknowledged him with a barely civil nod, then crossed to a stack of lumber and pulled a six-foot board off the top. "Come on, Charity. You said we had to make something to look like Jonah's boat or the children will never agree to rehearse."
Miss Calder gave Tristan a swift, unreadable glance from under her lashes before she replied. "Don't bother, Cris. I decided just to borrow a rowboat. But you can start building booths. We'll need a dozen at least for all the concessions." She untied the scarf from her hair, shook free the tangle of curls, then rolled down her sleeves. "I think I've mangled enough of my fingers for the day, but I'll go home and wake Barry and send him over to help you!"
Tristan noted that she did not bother to ask for his help, and, provoked, he broke in. "Perhaps I can walk with you then." She opened her mouth, and he said what he knew would forestall her demurral. "You mentioned that you needed someone to paint the backdrop of the whale. I have thought of a rather dramatic scene, but I don't know whether it would be appropriate for Midsummer."
His volunteering came as a surprise to them all, an unwelcome one to Crispin, who immediately said with some belligerence, "Charity, I told you I could paint a whale. Anyone can paint a whale. You don't need," his youthful voice dripped with sarcasm, "the Royal Academy to paint a whale."
Tristan ignored him, for the impulsive offer had done its job. Miss Calder was regarding him more charitably now; in fact, she even smiled at him as she gathered up her basket and donned her bonnet, leaving the ribbons undone to tangle with her dark
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