pumped their commodities into a growing, hungry, affluent society. Now the former showpiece homes of bosses and middle managers ran the gamut from private residences to run-down apartment buildings, depending on how the town’s neighborhoods had settled out.
It was late, and Sammie knew she had no real reason for being here, that nothing could be gained from it, but the lights showing through Gunther’s windows encouraged her nevertheless. After all, it was the nature of Joe’s character, and of how he’d encouraged them all to speak freely with him, that had prompted her to come here in the first place.
She swung out of the car into the sharp evening air and closed the door softly behind her. The carriage house was small enough that it reminded her of a toy railroad model, or something designed for dolls—seemingly an odd kind of place for an old cop to live, unless you knew him.
Gunther wasn’t cut from the Marine Corps model of square-jawed law enforcement, although he had that military experience in his past, including time in combat. If anything, given her aggressive style, Sammie fit that image better. Instead, Gunther could almost be fatherly: quiet, thoughtful, slow to anger or to rebuke, and unusually attentive to his people’s personal dilemmas. He had periodically gone to extremes to keep Willy out of trouble, but he’d also watched out for Sammie’s well-being over the years, as he had most of the people who’d ever worked with him.
Willy had groused to her occasionally that the “Old Man,” in his words, was compensating for having no kids or wife, and that he should mind his own business. Sammie not only disagreed, but knew the comment had more to do with Willy’s shortcomings than with Gunther’s. Joe didn’t have kids or a wife, true enough, but he had been married long ago to a woman who’d died of cancer, and was involved with another, for well over a decade now, with whom he had a devoted if quirky relationship—including not only separate residences, but also absences lasting for weeks on end when she was working at her lobbyist job up in Montpelier. Their alliance was obviously something only the two of them fully understood, but it seemed to work quite well.
Sammie could only envy them there. Her love life had been as turbulent and dreary as Joe’s had been placid, and her present involvement with Willy hardly seemed proof of a cure.
The front door opened to her knock and Joe Gunther stood before her with a plane in his hand and wood shavings sprinkled across the front of his pants. “Hi, Sam,” he said, unperturbed by the late hour. “Come on in. I was just goofing off in the shop.”
He’d converted a small barn off the back of the house into a woodworking shop. It was a newfound hobby for a man who used to only read and listen to classical music on those rare evenings he wasn’t working late. Sammie found it endearing, imagining her boss as a late-blooming elf, priming his talents to make toys for Santa. Except that she also knew it was largely a front. For all his softspoken ways and seeming imperturbability, Joe Gunther was actually more of a Clydesdale: an unstoppable force who compensated for a lack of genius with a doggedness second to none. Sammie had seen him plow through adversity, pain, and personal loss with stamina and courage she could only imagine.
“You want a cup of coffee?” he asked, ushering her in.
“No. I’m okay.”
He took her jacket and hung it on a nearby hook and invited her into the small living room around the corner, whose back door, standing ajar, led directly into the wood shop. He gestured to her to take a seat and, placing the plane on the coffee table between them, settled into an old armchair, scattering a few wood shavings onto the rug.
“You heard from Willy yet?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted.
“Which is why you’re here,” he suggested gently.
She looked at him ruefully. “Yeah. I’m sorry to be a pain. I’m just
It was late, and Sammie knew she had no real reason for being here, that nothing could be gained from it, but the lights showing through Gunther’s windows encouraged her nevertheless. After all, it was the nature of Joe’s character, and of how he’d encouraged them all to speak freely with him, that had prompted her to come here in the first place.
She swung out of the car into the sharp evening air and closed the door softly behind her. The carriage house was small enough that it reminded her of a toy railroad model, or something designed for dolls—seemingly an odd kind of place for an old cop to live, unless you knew him.
Gunther wasn’t cut from the Marine Corps model of square-jawed law enforcement, although he had that military experience in his past, including time in combat. If anything, given her aggressive style, Sammie fit that image better. Instead, Gunther could almost be fatherly: quiet, thoughtful, slow to anger or to rebuke, and unusually attentive to his people’s personal dilemmas. He had periodically gone to extremes to keep Willy out of trouble, but he’d also watched out for Sammie’s well-being over the years, as he had most of the people who’d ever worked with him.
Willy had groused to her occasionally that the “Old Man,” in his words, was compensating for having no kids or wife, and that he should mind his own business. Sammie not only disagreed, but knew the comment had more to do with Willy’s shortcomings than with Gunther’s. Joe didn’t have kids or a wife, true enough, but he had been married long ago to a woman who’d died of cancer, and was involved with another, for well over a decade now, with whom he had a devoted if quirky relationship—including not only separate residences, but also absences lasting for weeks on end when she was working at her lobbyist job up in Montpelier. Their alliance was obviously something only the two of them fully understood, but it seemed to work quite well.
Sammie could only envy them there. Her love life had been as turbulent and dreary as Joe’s had been placid, and her present involvement with Willy hardly seemed proof of a cure.
The front door opened to her knock and Joe Gunther stood before her with a plane in his hand and wood shavings sprinkled across the front of his pants. “Hi, Sam,” he said, unperturbed by the late hour. “Come on in. I was just goofing off in the shop.”
He’d converted a small barn off the back of the house into a woodworking shop. It was a newfound hobby for a man who used to only read and listen to classical music on those rare evenings he wasn’t working late. Sammie found it endearing, imagining her boss as a late-blooming elf, priming his talents to make toys for Santa. Except that she also knew it was largely a front. For all his softspoken ways and seeming imperturbability, Joe Gunther was actually more of a Clydesdale: an unstoppable force who compensated for a lack of genius with a doggedness second to none. Sammie had seen him plow through adversity, pain, and personal loss with stamina and courage she could only imagine.
“You want a cup of coffee?” he asked, ushering her in.
“No. I’m okay.”
He took her jacket and hung it on a nearby hook and invited her into the small living room around the corner, whose back door, standing ajar, led directly into the wood shop. He gestured to her to take a seat and, placing the plane on the coffee table between them, settled into an old armchair, scattering a few wood shavings onto the rug.
“You heard from Willy yet?” he asked.
“No,” she admitted.
“Which is why you’re here,” he suggested gently.
She looked at him ruefully. “Yeah. I’m sorry to be a pain. I’m just
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