metabolism, Ursa’s approach to life is admirably laid-back.
Sitting there with my hand on Ursa’s flank, watching it rise and fall with her breathing, at last my mind slowed and faced the real problem—not when the wedding would take place nor what its theme would be. No, the real conundrum I’d been mentally dancing around was Aunt Dodie’s question about the Hawk—the guy Sam hadn’t trusted. Why the hell hadn’t I dealt with this? It wasn’t my usual policy to ignore painful necessities—and that’s what this was.
I knew that I loved Phillip, that he was who I wanted to spend my life with. But if I asked him about the Hawk … oh god … could I trust his answer, whatever it might be … would there be a wedding at all?
I dawdled away half an hour or more, feeding the chickens, gathering the eggs, even pausing to do a little weeding in the bed of daylilies and black-eyed Susans that fronts the chicken yard. By the time I’d cleared the bed of incipient devil-in-the-garden, crabgrass (“crap grass” as some of the old-timers call it), and all the other weeds that had taken root in the rich soil, there was a huge pile of fresh green stuff for the biddies’ eating pleasure.
When I dumped the armload of weeds on the dirt of the chicken yard, Gregory Peck, the handsome Ameruacana rooster, began at once to scratch through the stems and leaves, all the while making encouraging clucking sounds to summon his harem. I sat myself down in the doorway of the chicken house and watched as he went through the always enchanting rooster routine of picking up choice bits, then dropping them so the hens could eat first.
The birds were still scratching and exclaiming
Oooh!A lovely bug!
in their pile of fresh greens when I started back up the road. I felt sure that by now the telltale reddening would have faded from my face and eyes and that I would be able to deal with my sister rationally and unemotionally. Just as I would, in the fullness of time, deal with the questions raised by Aunt Dodie’s letter—rationally and unemotionally.
“Mum, where’s that burn ointment we used to have—the white gunk in the blue plastic jar?”
Laurel’s voice floated out of the pantry. Gloria was nowhere to be seen but from the back of the house I could hear the sound of music—and a man’s mellow voice exhorting the listener to climb every mountain.
“Did you burn yourself?” I asked, setting down the wire basket with the morning’s collection of eggs. “I kind of think I threw it out—it was almost empty and what was left had turned a funny color. It was only about twenty years old—probably its use-by date expired ages ago.”
I could hear the sound of Laurel rooting around on the crowded pantry shelves. “No, I don’t see it … maybe you have something else … peroxide, calamine, antibiotic ointment, cough syrup …”
“Let me see the burn, sweetie,” I said. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten around to replacing that white gunk yet. I went on a rampage a while back and got rid of all the expired medicines. Believe it or not, the shelf is much tidier than it was before. How bad is the burn? I have a first-aid kit down at the shop. There might be some—”
Laurel emerged from the pantry with a cobweb draped across the top of her head—the medicine shelf is the topmost one, a holdover from our childproofing days.
“It’s Gloria who has the burn, not me. She said it was from the hot grease when she was frying the littlewhatchamacallits. It’s not that bad but it was starting to bother her some.”
Laurel downed the last of her coffee and shrugged on her knapsack. “I need to move along if I’m going to have any time for my sketches. It’ll take me twenty minutes anyway to get up to the top of Pinnacle and—”
“Laurel.” I caught at her arm and followed her out to the porch. “Listen, sweetie, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m sure a handfasting is a lovely ceremony but I’m no more
Sitting there with my hand on Ursa’s flank, watching it rise and fall with her breathing, at last my mind slowed and faced the real problem—not when the wedding would take place nor what its theme would be. No, the real conundrum I’d been mentally dancing around was Aunt Dodie’s question about the Hawk—the guy Sam hadn’t trusted. Why the hell hadn’t I dealt with this? It wasn’t my usual policy to ignore painful necessities—and that’s what this was.
I knew that I loved Phillip, that he was who I wanted to spend my life with. But if I asked him about the Hawk … oh god … could I trust his answer, whatever it might be … would there be a wedding at all?
I dawdled away half an hour or more, feeding the chickens, gathering the eggs, even pausing to do a little weeding in the bed of daylilies and black-eyed Susans that fronts the chicken yard. By the time I’d cleared the bed of incipient devil-in-the-garden, crabgrass (“crap grass” as some of the old-timers call it), and all the other weeds that had taken root in the rich soil, there was a huge pile of fresh green stuff for the biddies’ eating pleasure.
When I dumped the armload of weeds on the dirt of the chicken yard, Gregory Peck, the handsome Ameruacana rooster, began at once to scratch through the stems and leaves, all the while making encouraging clucking sounds to summon his harem. I sat myself down in the doorway of the chicken house and watched as he went through the always enchanting rooster routine of picking up choice bits, then dropping them so the hens could eat first.
The birds were still scratching and exclaiming
Oooh!A lovely bug!
in their pile of fresh greens when I started back up the road. I felt sure that by now the telltale reddening would have faded from my face and eyes and that I would be able to deal with my sister rationally and unemotionally. Just as I would, in the fullness of time, deal with the questions raised by Aunt Dodie’s letter—rationally and unemotionally.
“Mum, where’s that burn ointment we used to have—the white gunk in the blue plastic jar?”
Laurel’s voice floated out of the pantry. Gloria was nowhere to be seen but from the back of the house I could hear the sound of music—and a man’s mellow voice exhorting the listener to climb every mountain.
“Did you burn yourself?” I asked, setting down the wire basket with the morning’s collection of eggs. “I kind of think I threw it out—it was almost empty and what was left had turned a funny color. It was only about twenty years old—probably its use-by date expired ages ago.”
I could hear the sound of Laurel rooting around on the crowded pantry shelves. “No, I don’t see it … maybe you have something else … peroxide, calamine, antibiotic ointment, cough syrup …”
“Let me see the burn, sweetie,” I said. “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten around to replacing that white gunk yet. I went on a rampage a while back and got rid of all the expired medicines. Believe it or not, the shelf is much tidier than it was before. How bad is the burn? I have a first-aid kit down at the shop. There might be some—”
Laurel emerged from the pantry with a cobweb draped across the top of her head—the medicine shelf is the topmost one, a holdover from our childproofing days.
“It’s Gloria who has the burn, not me. She said it was from the hot grease when she was frying the littlewhatchamacallits. It’s not that bad but it was starting to bother her some.”
Laurel downed the last of her coffee and shrugged on her knapsack. “I need to move along if I’m going to have any time for my sketches. It’ll take me twenty minutes anyway to get up to the top of Pinnacle and—”
“Laurel.” I caught at her arm and followed her out to the porch. “Listen, sweetie, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m sure a handfasting is a lovely ceremony but I’m no more
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