down a distance from itscanvas-sling cousin, then picked it up again to shift it half a foot closer. In a practiced move she unbuckled the belt and slung it over the slatted back, then went to rinse out the coffeepot.
Ed had set two bulging paper sacks from the Friday Harbor grocery store on the aluminum cook table; she sorted through them until she found her milk for the week. She opened the bag of coffee grounds and spooned some in, checked to see that the mug she intended for her visitor was more or less clean, and then turned to ask if he took sugar. Ed was perched on the edge of the canvas chair with her hammer in his hands, running his blunt fingers over the satiny finish of the handle. She shuddered, as if he had been caressing instead the back of her neck, and her hands yearned to snatch the tool away from him.
“Sugar?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“No, thanks. What kind of wood is this?”
With that opening, Rae was freed to go over and draw the tool gently out of his hands, smoothing her own thumb over the dark rich amber handle that she had turned and shaped to fit her palm and fingers like a custom-made glove. “It’s Honduran mahogany. I had a piece left over, I needed a handle, so I thought, Why not? I don’t think it’s really strong enough for the purpose, but time will tell.”
“Left over. Like from remodeling your kitchen or something?”
Rae had a brief vision of a kitchen clothed in that rich wood—like drowning in melted chocolate.
No; left over, as in a peace offering that didn’t work
, she nearly told Ed, but said instead, “I made a little end table for my daughter.”
His face closed in slightly. “Would that, er, would that be the daughter I met?”
“The one and only,” she told him. Now. She watched his face, and this time her smile, though slightly sad, came more naturally. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
He looked up, surprised either by the phrase or by the fact that it had been the woman’s own mother who said it.
“I … well, I guess.”
“Bossed you all the way back to Friday Harbor, I’ll bet.”
“You’re right about that.” One mustache hitched upward in a rueful grin.
“And then she asked you to keep an eye on me.” It was a guess, but not too far-fetched; Tamara had paid neighbors before.
Ed went still, and Rae moved to reassure him. “Don’t worry about it. I figured she’d find someone who could check to see that I wasn’t lying dead under a tree or going nuts and talking with the birds.”
She watched him closely, saw his sea-colored eyes skitter sideways, muttered a curse under her breath, and continued, “I bet she told you I’d been in a mental hospital.” His eyes became very interested in his frayed canvas shoes; answer enough. Shit, Tamara; why do you do these things? Well, if old Ed knew that, he probably ought to know the rest—or as much of the rest as Rae cared to tell. She couldn’t afford to have all of Friday Harbor thinking of her as the madwoman of Newborn’s Folly. Even if it’s what she was.
“Did Tamara also tell you I was badly injured in an accident that killed my husband?” She couldn’t think for a moment why she had failed to mention Bella. No, giving him Bella would have been too much: Sympathy for a loss was one thing; the extreme pity for loss of a child quite another. “No, I didn’t think she’d mention the accident. A person’s likely to be a little depressed for a while, after that.”
She gave him back the hammer, the wood slapping against his callused palm, and turned to make the coffee. “You take milk?”
“No, just black. Look, I’m—”
“Ed, it’s really okay. I’m afraid that my daughter’s just a manipulative bitch. I’m only sorry you have to be dealing with her.”
“Oh, hey, no, I’m not going to be dealing with her,” he asserted, although Rae thought his righteousness did not ring entirely true.
“Why not? Report to her how I’m getting on, take
Ed had set two bulging paper sacks from the Friday Harbor grocery store on the aluminum cook table; she sorted through them until she found her milk for the week. She opened the bag of coffee grounds and spooned some in, checked to see that the mug she intended for her visitor was more or less clean, and then turned to ask if he took sugar. Ed was perched on the edge of the canvas chair with her hammer in his hands, running his blunt fingers over the satiny finish of the handle. She shuddered, as if he had been caressing instead the back of her neck, and her hands yearned to snatch the tool away from him.
“Sugar?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“No, thanks. What kind of wood is this?”
With that opening, Rae was freed to go over and draw the tool gently out of his hands, smoothing her own thumb over the dark rich amber handle that she had turned and shaped to fit her palm and fingers like a custom-made glove. “It’s Honduran mahogany. I had a piece left over, I needed a handle, so I thought, Why not? I don’t think it’s really strong enough for the purpose, but time will tell.”
“Left over. Like from remodeling your kitchen or something?”
Rae had a brief vision of a kitchen clothed in that rich wood—like drowning in melted chocolate.
No; left over, as in a peace offering that didn’t work
, she nearly told Ed, but said instead, “I made a little end table for my daughter.”
His face closed in slightly. “Would that, er, would that be the daughter I met?”
“The one and only,” she told him. Now. She watched his face, and this time her smile, though slightly sad, came more naturally. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
He looked up, surprised either by the phrase or by the fact that it had been the woman’s own mother who said it.
“I … well, I guess.”
“Bossed you all the way back to Friday Harbor, I’ll bet.”
“You’re right about that.” One mustache hitched upward in a rueful grin.
“And then she asked you to keep an eye on me.” It was a guess, but not too far-fetched; Tamara had paid neighbors before.
Ed went still, and Rae moved to reassure him. “Don’t worry about it. I figured she’d find someone who could check to see that I wasn’t lying dead under a tree or going nuts and talking with the birds.”
She watched him closely, saw his sea-colored eyes skitter sideways, muttered a curse under her breath, and continued, “I bet she told you I’d been in a mental hospital.” His eyes became very interested in his frayed canvas shoes; answer enough. Shit, Tamara; why do you do these things? Well, if old Ed knew that, he probably ought to know the rest—or as much of the rest as Rae cared to tell. She couldn’t afford to have all of Friday Harbor thinking of her as the madwoman of Newborn’s Folly. Even if it’s what she was.
“Did Tamara also tell you I was badly injured in an accident that killed my husband?” She couldn’t think for a moment why she had failed to mention Bella. No, giving him Bella would have been too much: Sympathy for a loss was one thing; the extreme pity for loss of a child quite another. “No, I didn’t think she’d mention the accident. A person’s likely to be a little depressed for a while, after that.”
She gave him back the hammer, the wood slapping against his callused palm, and turned to make the coffee. “You take milk?”
“No, just black. Look, I’m—”
“Ed, it’s really okay. I’m afraid that my daughter’s just a manipulative bitch. I’m only sorry you have to be dealing with her.”
“Oh, hey, no, I’m not going to be dealing with her,” he asserted, although Rae thought his righteousness did not ring entirely true.
“Why not? Report to her how I’m getting on, take
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