group in Holding, which meant a full day and evening down the mountain. As for the church in Hendersonville that wanted him to supply for a month next January, and the letter from the bishop which he hadn’t yet opened . . .
It was fish or cut bait.
She answered on the first ring; Snickers barked in the background.
‘Hello, Emma?’
• • •
D EAREST C YNTHIA was to the point—nothing wrong with that.
Darling Girl had a nice tone, she liked such terms of affection.
Ha.
He uncapped the pen and wrote.
Dear Bookend.
Good. That was it.
He had rather take a whipping than do this. Didn’t she know he loved her? What was she looking for in this exercise? It seemed a waste of time—he could be sanding the basement steps, which needed two coats and a sealer.
Nothing more came forth. He laid the pen down and sat as ifturned to stone. His mind was Arctic tundra—hither a scrap of stunted moss, yon a dwarf tree.
His ankles had begun to swell when a beguiling thought pushed through, something like blood forcing passage in a heavily blocked artery, but he resisted such thinking.
Then again, why resist? And so what if it had been done before? She would love nothing better than being told the answer in scrupulous detail.
He took up the pen, ritually shook down the ink, and wrote.
How do I love thee? Let me count . . .
There was more than one way to skin a cat.
• • •
‘I CAME RIGHT OVER .’ Emma had let herself in through the garage, and stood at his desk looking flushed.
He glanced at his watch.
‘I know, I know.’ She thumped her purse into his out-box; he hated it when she did that. ‘It’s nine o’clock, and you said ten, I’m runnin’ early. Better an hour early than a minute late, you always said.’
‘Have a seat.’ He shuffled papers to conceal the letter. ‘How are you?’
‘I thought I’d never hear from you, I had to find out at the post office that you’d actually gotten home.’ The arched eyebrow.
‘Takes a while to get back in the swing,’ he said, dry as crust.
She removed something from her purse, took it over to Barnabas. Down the hatch it went. ‘Peanut-butter dog cookie with glucosamine,’ she said, giving his dog a perfunctory scratch behind the ear. ‘Tried one myself. Not bad.’
She sat down in front of his desk. ‘So you fainted. Dead away or just partially?’
‘Partially.’ He drummed the desktop with his fingers.
She had herself a good laugh. His relationship with Emma Newland personified what he’d heard about childbirth—one forgot the agony ’til the next time around.
‘How’s Harold?’
‘Depressed. Retirement coming up next year.’
‘Oh, that.’ That can of worms, that hoisting by one’s own petard. ‘I’d like you to make some calls for me, write a letter or two, if you’d be so kind.’
‘Excellent. I have Tuesdays free.’
‘I was thinking a couple of hours today.’
‘I could use something more permanent,’ she said. She slid her glasses down her nose, gave him a look. ‘Like we used to have.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but produced only the odd gasp.
‘Remember who rescheduled you with the airline and bailed you out of Ireland for a measly five-hundred-dollar penalty. And remember who got you into that fancy Dublin hotel at the last minute, in the middle of high season.’ She crossed her arms, satisfied, complete.
If he lost this round, he was toast. ‘And perhaps you remember,’ he said, ‘who sent you a
large
. . .
Waterford . . . vase
.’ He let the words suspend in the air.
She grinned. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’m good for a couple of hours.’
‘So make my apologies to the Rotary president for what he calls an important meeting.’ He handed her the jumble of notes he’d made; she scanned them.
‘Why do you want to skip the Rotary meeting? Rotarians do great things for people. Harold is a Rotarian.’
‘True. Great
It was fish or cut bait.
She answered on the first ring; Snickers barked in the background.
‘Hello, Emma?’
• • •
D EAREST C YNTHIA was to the point—nothing wrong with that.
Darling Girl had a nice tone, she liked such terms of affection.
Ha.
He uncapped the pen and wrote.
Dear Bookend.
Good. That was it.
He had rather take a whipping than do this. Didn’t she know he loved her? What was she looking for in this exercise? It seemed a waste of time—he could be sanding the basement steps, which needed two coats and a sealer.
Nothing more came forth. He laid the pen down and sat as ifturned to stone. His mind was Arctic tundra—hither a scrap of stunted moss, yon a dwarf tree.
His ankles had begun to swell when a beguiling thought pushed through, something like blood forcing passage in a heavily blocked artery, but he resisted such thinking.
Then again, why resist? And so what if it had been done before? She would love nothing better than being told the answer in scrupulous detail.
He took up the pen, ritually shook down the ink, and wrote.
How do I love thee? Let me count . . .
There was more than one way to skin a cat.
• • •
‘I CAME RIGHT OVER .’ Emma had let herself in through the garage, and stood at his desk looking flushed.
He glanced at his watch.
‘I know, I know.’ She thumped her purse into his out-box; he hated it when she did that. ‘It’s nine o’clock, and you said ten, I’m runnin’ early. Better an hour early than a minute late, you always said.’
‘Have a seat.’ He shuffled papers to conceal the letter. ‘How are you?’
‘I thought I’d never hear from you, I had to find out at the post office that you’d actually gotten home.’ The arched eyebrow.
‘Takes a while to get back in the swing,’ he said, dry as crust.
She removed something from her purse, took it over to Barnabas. Down the hatch it went. ‘Peanut-butter dog cookie with glucosamine,’ she said, giving his dog a perfunctory scratch behind the ear. ‘Tried one myself. Not bad.’
She sat down in front of his desk. ‘So you fainted. Dead away or just partially?’
‘Partially.’ He drummed the desktop with his fingers.
She had herself a good laugh. His relationship with Emma Newland personified what he’d heard about childbirth—one forgot the agony ’til the next time around.
‘How’s Harold?’
‘Depressed. Retirement coming up next year.’
‘Oh, that.’ That can of worms, that hoisting by one’s own petard. ‘I’d like you to make some calls for me, write a letter or two, if you’d be so kind.’
‘Excellent. I have Tuesdays free.’
‘I was thinking a couple of hours today.’
‘I could use something more permanent,’ she said. She slid her glasses down her nose, gave him a look. ‘Like we used to have.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but produced only the odd gasp.
‘Remember who rescheduled you with the airline and bailed you out of Ireland for a measly five-hundred-dollar penalty. And remember who got you into that fancy Dublin hotel at the last minute, in the middle of high season.’ She crossed her arms, satisfied, complete.
If he lost this round, he was toast. ‘And perhaps you remember,’ he said, ‘who sent you a
large
. . .
Waterford . . . vase
.’ He let the words suspend in the air.
She grinned. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’m good for a couple of hours.’
‘So make my apologies to the Rotary president for what he calls an important meeting.’ He handed her the jumble of notes he’d made; she scanned them.
‘Why do you want to skip the Rotary meeting? Rotarians do great things for people. Harold is a Rotarian.’
‘True. Great
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