leaning back in his chair.“Not a word, not even a crumb of rotten cake.”
A debate started. Who would go back home and win Bess’s heart, overlooking her lack of cooking skills? “I’d marry her. Don’t care if she can’t cook,” determined a flyer from the back of the hut.
“You’ll have to get in line behind me, Downs.” This from Wilkins.
As an icy blast shook the hall, Chet hunkered down over his coffee, listening to the men argue over marrying a girl they’d never meet.
Heath reviewed his prose. Not bad. Maybe passable. He liked the escape of writing about another place and time, incorporating his love of history and heroes like his granddad.
Talk to me, Chet McCord. What’s it like up there in the cold, frozen Aleutians?
A small, distant crash snapped Heath’s attention. Looking up, he listened. Another crash. Louder this time. Shoving his laptop to the ottoman, he stood with a glance at Tracey-Love. She slept undisturbed. Crash, again. Who was breaking glass? Heath eased in the direction of the sound.
Crash. A high-pitched yell. Heath peered out the sink window, where Ava’s letter still waited, and through the blueish-orange twilight caught Elle firing objects at the garage wall just under the studio’s stairs. Something white and glistening exploded like porcelain fireworks and fell into the tall grass.
She bent to a box for another item. Heath squinted. A gravy boat? She lunged it, but this time the piece barely broke in two. He stepped outside and hollered from the deck.
“You throw like a girl.”
Without breaking rhythm, Elle whipped another piece through the air. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am a girl.”
Yeah, he’d noticed. Too much. First time since Ava’s death he’d noticed a woman. He eased her way, carefully, in case she got a wild hair and decided to lob something at him. A white-and-rose teapot popped against the block wall, cracked in two, and thudded to the ground.
“Put more shoulder into it,” he offered.
“Of all the possible renters in the world, I get Roger Clemens?”
Elle picked up a round platter and flipped it like a Frisbee, smashing it into pieces. “Satisfied?”
“Better, Garvey. Much better.” He angled over to see her face.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” She Frisbeed another plate.
Heath smiled when it hit. She was getting a rhythm. “Breaking dishes? But why?”
Stopping to catch her breath, Elle stared up at him, then pitched a petite vase.
Heath stood aside, gaining understanding. He’d been in the same place, grief iced with anger. He’d wanted to smash a few things, but in the end couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d given up too much to waste the things he and Ava had shared together. In many ways, things were all he had left to help him remember.
Elle side-armed a teacup. Good smash, nice tinkling resonance. “Remind me not to let Tracey-Love run around here barefoot.”
“I’ll shop vac later.”
“Is this making you feel better?” he asked. The exercise didn’t appear to be relieving her of anything, only fueling her anger.
“No, actually, it isn’t.”
“Are you destroying wedding gifts?”
“Sort of.” She kicked the box. “Things I’ve collected over the years. Stupid things . . .” Her voice faded into a watery quiver.
“I’m sorry, Elle.” Heath slipped his hands into his jeans pocket and just waited for her to go on. Throw another stupid thing or walk away.
“Why do girls want to be married so badly? Stupid, isn’t it?” She wiped a light sheen of sweat from her forehead.
“No. And don’t fool yourself; men want to be married just as much, if not more. Love and commitment are wonderful things.”
Elle eyed him through blowing strands of her hair. “Is there a pile of broken china in your past? Lying on some New York lawn?”
Beautiful and perceptive. He was noticing her more every time they talked. “I can relate to your pain and frustration,
A debate started. Who would go back home and win Bess’s heart, overlooking her lack of cooking skills? “I’d marry her. Don’t care if she can’t cook,” determined a flyer from the back of the hut.
“You’ll have to get in line behind me, Downs.” This from Wilkins.
As an icy blast shook the hall, Chet hunkered down over his coffee, listening to the men argue over marrying a girl they’d never meet.
Heath reviewed his prose. Not bad. Maybe passable. He liked the escape of writing about another place and time, incorporating his love of history and heroes like his granddad.
Talk to me, Chet McCord. What’s it like up there in the cold, frozen Aleutians?
A small, distant crash snapped Heath’s attention. Looking up, he listened. Another crash. Louder this time. Shoving his laptop to the ottoman, he stood with a glance at Tracey-Love. She slept undisturbed. Crash, again. Who was breaking glass? Heath eased in the direction of the sound.
Crash. A high-pitched yell. Heath peered out the sink window, where Ava’s letter still waited, and through the blueish-orange twilight caught Elle firing objects at the garage wall just under the studio’s stairs. Something white and glistening exploded like porcelain fireworks and fell into the tall grass.
She bent to a box for another item. Heath squinted. A gravy boat? She lunged it, but this time the piece barely broke in two. He stepped outside and hollered from the deck.
“You throw like a girl.”
Without breaking rhythm, Elle whipped another piece through the air. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am a girl.”
Yeah, he’d noticed. Too much. First time since Ava’s death he’d noticed a woman. He eased her way, carefully, in case she got a wild hair and decided to lob something at him. A white-and-rose teapot popped against the block wall, cracked in two, and thudded to the ground.
“Put more shoulder into it,” he offered.
“Of all the possible renters in the world, I get Roger Clemens?”
Elle picked up a round platter and flipped it like a Frisbee, smashing it into pieces. “Satisfied?”
“Better, Garvey. Much better.” He angled over to see her face.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” She Frisbeed another plate.
Heath smiled when it hit. She was getting a rhythm. “Breaking dishes? But why?”
Stopping to catch her breath, Elle stared up at him, then pitched a petite vase.
Heath stood aside, gaining understanding. He’d been in the same place, grief iced with anger. He’d wanted to smash a few things, but in the end couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d given up too much to waste the things he and Ava had shared together. In many ways, things were all he had left to help him remember.
Elle side-armed a teacup. Good smash, nice tinkling resonance. “Remind me not to let Tracey-Love run around here barefoot.”
“I’ll shop vac later.”
“Is this making you feel better?” he asked. The exercise didn’t appear to be relieving her of anything, only fueling her anger.
“No, actually, it isn’t.”
“Are you destroying wedding gifts?”
“Sort of.” She kicked the box. “Things I’ve collected over the years. Stupid things . . .” Her voice faded into a watery quiver.
“I’m sorry, Elle.” Heath slipped his hands into his jeans pocket and just waited for her to go on. Throw another stupid thing or walk away.
“Why do girls want to be married so badly? Stupid, isn’t it?” She wiped a light sheen of sweat from her forehead.
“No. And don’t fool yourself; men want to be married just as much, if not more. Love and commitment are wonderful things.”
Elle eyed him through blowing strands of her hair. “Is there a pile of broken china in your past? Lying on some New York lawn?”
Beautiful and perceptive. He was noticing her more every time they talked. “I can relate to your pain and frustration,
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