The Eden Tree by Doreen Owens Malek Page A

chin. She put the back of her hand to his forehead, and it felt cool. Satisfied, she got up and went to the kitchenette, putting the kettle on to boil. She thought with a mental sigh that she could kill for a cup of American coffee, but she’d found that it was scarce in this country. They were all passionately devoted to tea.
    She had the opportunity to examine Con’s home for the first time since she’d arrived. He had converted the interior of the stone cottage into a sort of bachelor pad. There was a small modern kitchen in one corner next to the brick fireplace, which was obviously original. A combined leisure and work area consisted of twin couches in front of the hearth and a sturdy worktable, which contained the telephone and typewriter. Three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves, which were crammed with everything imaginable, including a small Japanese television set and a stack of clean shirts. He had a dresser and a chest of drawers in the alcove that housed the bed. Chintz curtains that matched the print on the sofas covered the windows. Linn looked around curiously for the bathroom and saw a door leading off from the rear of the kitchen. He had added that, as well as the many electric outlets which dotted the walls. He must have rewired the whole place to accommodate his appliances, a process that Linn was just beginning at the main house.
    The kettle whistled and Linn went to turn it off, glancing at Con, who slept undisturbed. She turned on the small lamp on the bar portion of the kitchen and looked around for tea bags. In one of the cupboards she found something better: a jar of instant coffee. It was a British brand and didn’t compare favorably with her beloved ground roast, but it was better than nothing. Mug in hand, she wandered over to the bookshelves and investigated their contents.
    He had an Irishman’s taste in books. He had many volumes of poetry, including a copy of Yeats’ original notes in the writer’s own hand, which must have cost a fortune. There were selections on Irish, American and British history and a wide range of contemporary fiction. Quite a few were in Gaelic, written with a runic alphabet and read from right to left. Linn flipped through a volume, thinking that the writing looked like Hebrew. Con seemed particularly interested in the Celtic folktales, which were Seamus Martin’s stock-in-trade; Linn examined a book on Deirdre of the Sorrows, which featured lovely pen-and-ink sketches of the principals in her tragic story.
    There were some textbooks he’d saved from Fordham, and a Trinity yearbook in which she found his picture. Linn checked on the patient guiltily; he might not like her inspection of his library. You could learn a lot about people from the books they owned. Linn felt that this tour was the best insight she’d had into his character, providing information he would never volunteer himself.
    There wasn’t a single copy of his own books. She thought this odd; if she ever had anything published she intended to wallpaper her rooms with the cover proofs.
    Linn drained her cup and set about putting the large room in order. The cottage wasn’t dirty, just cluttered. She put Con’s papers into neat, organized stacks and resisted the strong temptation to read the manuscript pages she found on top of the typewriter. She washed the dishes in the sink and put away a bag of groceries he’d left to decompose on the countertop. Most of the stuff was salvageable; she poured the soured milk down the sink and tossed out the rock hard loaf of bread. He had evidently left in a hurry.
    She was crouched before the mini refrigerator, putting things away, when she heard a sound from Con’s direction. She hurried to his side. He was whimpering, muttering under his breath, bunching the bedclothes in his fists. Alarmed, she felt his forehead, but he was still cool. He wasn’t delirious; he was having a bad dream.
    She touched his arm lightly but he continued to talk,