doing things.”
“You’re not.”
“What would you be doing if I weren’t here?”
“On a day like this, not much of anything.”
Which was precisely what he was doing now, he mused a tad wryly. He’d gone to the back shed, thinking that working with toothpicks and glue, making progress on the model home he’d been commissioned to make, would be therapeutic. But if the therapy had been intended to take his mind off Leah, it had failed. Even the book that lay open on his lap—a novel he’d purchased the week before—failed to capture him.
Leah broke into his thoughts. “And if it weren’t raining?”
“I’d be outside.”
“Trapping?”
He shrugged.
“Victoria said you were a trapper.”
“I am, but the best part of the trapping season’s over for the year.”
She let that statement sink in, but it raised more questions than it answered. So a while later, she tried again.
“What do you trap?”
He was crouching before the fire, adding another log to the flames. “Fisher, fox, raccoon.”
“You sell the furs?”
He hesitated, wondering if Leah was the crusader type who’d lecture him about the evils of killing animals to provide luxury items for rich people. He decided that there was only one way to find out.
“That’s right.”
“I’ve never owned a fur coat.”
“Why not?” He turned on his haunches, waiting for the lecture.
“They’re too expensive, for one thing. Richard—my ex-husband—thought I should have one, but I kept putting him off. If you walk into a restaurant with a fur, either you’re afraid to check it in case it gets stolen, or the management refuses to let you check it. In either case, you have to spend the evening worrying about whether your fruits de mer au chardonnay will spatter. Besides, I’ve always thought fur coats to be too showy. And they’re heavy. I don’t want that kind of weight on my shoulders.”
It wasn’t quite the answer Garrick had feared, but it was a fearful one nonetheless, for it had given him a glimpse of her life—at least, the one she’d had when she’d been married. Her husband had apparently been well-to-do. They’d gone to fine French restaurants and had kept company with women who did worry about spattering sauce on their furs. If he could tell himself that Leah was as turned off by that kind of life-style as he was, he’d feel better. He’d also feel worse, because he’d like her even more.
“I see your point” was all he said, returning to the sofa and lowering his eyes to his book in hopes of ending the conversation. Leah took the hint and said nothing more, but that bothered him. If she’d pushed, he might have had something to hold against her. He hated pushy women, and Lord, had he known his share.
Lunchtime came. Halfway through her bologna sandwich, Leah set it down gently. “Did I offend you?”
“Excuse me?”
“When I said that I didn’t like fur coats?”
He’d been deep in his own musings, which had gone far beyond fur coats. It took him a minute to return. “You didn’t offend me. I don’t like them, either.”
“No?”
He shook his head.
“Doesn’t that take some of the pleasure out of your work?”
“How so?”
“Having someone turn the product of your hard work into something you don’t like? I know I’d be devastated if someone used my page of the paper to wrap fish.”
“Does anyone?”
“I’ve never witnessed it personally, but I’m sure it’s been done more than once.”
“If you did see it, what would you do?”
She considered for a minute, then gave a half shrug. “Rationalize, I suppose.”
“How?”
“I’d tell myself that I enjoyed creating the puzzle and that I was paid for it, but that … that’s the end of my involvement. If it gives someone pleasure to wrap fish in my puzzle—” she hesitated, hating to say the next but knowing she had to “—so be it.”
He grinned.
She winced, then murmured sheepishly, “If it gives someone
“You’re not.”
“What would you be doing if I weren’t here?”
“On a day like this, not much of anything.”
Which was precisely what he was doing now, he mused a tad wryly. He’d gone to the back shed, thinking that working with toothpicks and glue, making progress on the model home he’d been commissioned to make, would be therapeutic. But if the therapy had been intended to take his mind off Leah, it had failed. Even the book that lay open on his lap—a novel he’d purchased the week before—failed to capture him.
Leah broke into his thoughts. “And if it weren’t raining?”
“I’d be outside.”
“Trapping?”
He shrugged.
“Victoria said you were a trapper.”
“I am, but the best part of the trapping season’s over for the year.”
She let that statement sink in, but it raised more questions than it answered. So a while later, she tried again.
“What do you trap?”
He was crouching before the fire, adding another log to the flames. “Fisher, fox, raccoon.”
“You sell the furs?”
He hesitated, wondering if Leah was the crusader type who’d lecture him about the evils of killing animals to provide luxury items for rich people. He decided that there was only one way to find out.
“That’s right.”
“I’ve never owned a fur coat.”
“Why not?” He turned on his haunches, waiting for the lecture.
“They’re too expensive, for one thing. Richard—my ex-husband—thought I should have one, but I kept putting him off. If you walk into a restaurant with a fur, either you’re afraid to check it in case it gets stolen, or the management refuses to let you check it. In either case, you have to spend the evening worrying about whether your fruits de mer au chardonnay will spatter. Besides, I’ve always thought fur coats to be too showy. And they’re heavy. I don’t want that kind of weight on my shoulders.”
It wasn’t quite the answer Garrick had feared, but it was a fearful one nonetheless, for it had given him a glimpse of her life—at least, the one she’d had when she’d been married. Her husband had apparently been well-to-do. They’d gone to fine French restaurants and had kept company with women who did worry about spattering sauce on their furs. If he could tell himself that Leah was as turned off by that kind of life-style as he was, he’d feel better. He’d also feel worse, because he’d like her even more.
“I see your point” was all he said, returning to the sofa and lowering his eyes to his book in hopes of ending the conversation. Leah took the hint and said nothing more, but that bothered him. If she’d pushed, he might have had something to hold against her. He hated pushy women, and Lord, had he known his share.
Lunchtime came. Halfway through her bologna sandwich, Leah set it down gently. “Did I offend you?”
“Excuse me?”
“When I said that I didn’t like fur coats?”
He’d been deep in his own musings, which had gone far beyond fur coats. It took him a minute to return. “You didn’t offend me. I don’t like them, either.”
“No?”
He shook his head.
“Doesn’t that take some of the pleasure out of your work?”
“How so?”
“Having someone turn the product of your hard work into something you don’t like? I know I’d be devastated if someone used my page of the paper to wrap fish.”
“Does anyone?”
“I’ve never witnessed it personally, but I’m sure it’s been done more than once.”
“If you did see it, what would you do?”
She considered for a minute, then gave a half shrug. “Rationalize, I suppose.”
“How?”
“I’d tell myself that I enjoyed creating the puzzle and that I was paid for it, but that … that’s the end of my involvement. If it gives someone pleasure to wrap fish in my puzzle—” she hesitated, hating to say the next but knowing she had to “—so be it.”
He grinned.
She winced, then murmured sheepishly, “If it gives someone
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