Chapter Nine
NINE
THE cheerful whistling woke Nathan. As he drifted in that nether-world just under full consciousness, he dreamed of a bird chirping happily on the near branch of the maple tree outside his window.
There had been one in his youth, a mockingbird that sang its morning song every day for a full summer, greeting him so reliably that he had named it Bud.
Hazy, hot days filled with the important business of bike riding and ball playing and Popsicle licking.
The insistent wake-up call caused Nathan to greet every morning with a grin and a quick salute to Bud. He’d been devastated when Bud deserted him in late August, but Nathan’s mother said that Bud had probably gone off early for his winter vacation.
Nathan rolled over and thought how odd it was that Bud should know how to whistle “Ring of Fire.” In the half dream the bird hopped onto the windowsill, a cartoon bird now, a Disney character with sleek black feathers and Johnny Cash’s weathered, been-there-done-that face.
When the bird began executing some sharp choreography that included high kicks and fancy spins, Nathan jerked himself awake. He stared at the window, half expecting to see a richly animated cartoon extravaganza.
“Jesus.” He ran his hands over his face. “No more canned chili at midnight, Delaney.”
He rolled over facedown on the pillow. Then he realized that while the bird wasn’t there, the whistling was.
Grunting, he crawled out of bed and stepped into the cutoffs he’d stepped out of the night before. Brain bleary, he blinked at the clock, winced, then stumbled out of the room to find out who the hell was so cheerful at six-fifteen.
He followed the whistling—it was “San Antonio Rose” now—out the screened porch, down the steps.
A shiny red pickup was parked behind his Jeep in the short drive.
Its owner was under the house, standing on a stepladder and doing something to the ductwork while whistling his heart out.
The ropy muscles rippling outside and under the thin blue T-shirt had Nathan readjusting his thoughts of quick murder.
Maybe he could take Whistling Boy, he considered. They looked to be close to the same height. He couldn’t see the face, but the gimme cap, the snug jeans, and scruffy work boots said youth to Nathan.
He’d think about killing him after coffee, he decided.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Whistling Boy turned his head, shot a quick, cheerful grin from under the bill of his cap. “Morning. You got some leaks here. Gotta get it up and running right before AC weather hits.”
“You’re air-conditioning repair?”
“Hell, I’m everything repair.” He stepped off the ladder, swiping a hand clean on the seat of his jeans before holding it out to Nathan. “I’m Giff Verdon. I fix anything.”
Nathan studied the friendly brown eyes, the crooked incisor, dimples, the shaggy mess of sun-streaked hair spilling out of the cap, and gave up. “You fix coffee? Decent coffee?”
“You got the makings, I can fix it.”
“They got some sort of cone thing with a ...” Nathan illustrated vaguely with his hands. “Pot.”
“Drip coffee. That’s the best. You look like you could use some, Mr. Delaney.”
“Nathan. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for a real pot of coffee.”
Giff gave a chuckling laugh, slapped Nathan smartly on the back. “You need it that bad, it’s free. Let’s go fix you up.”
“You always start work at dawn?” Nathan asked as he shuffled up the steps behind Giff.
“Get an early start, you enjoy more of the day.” He headed directly to the stove, filled the kettle at the sink. “Got any filters?”
“No.”
“Well, we’ll jury-rig her, then.” Giff tore off some paper towels, folded them cleverly, and slipped them into the plastic cone. “You’re an architect, right?”
“Yeah.”
Nathan ran his tongue over his teeth, thought fleetingly about brushing them. After coffee. Worlds could be conquered, oceans could be crossed, women could be seduced. After coffee. Life would be worth living again. After coffee.
“I used to think I’d be one.”
“Used to think you’d be one what?” Nathan prompted as Giff dug into the cabinet over the stove for coffee.
“An architect. I could always see these places in my head, houses mostly, windows, rooflines, shades of brick and siding. Right down to the fancy work.” Giff scooped coffee out of the can and into the cone with the careless precision of habit.
“I could even walk myself inside, go through the layout. Sometimes I’d shift things around.
That stairway doesn’t belong over there, it’s better over here. ”
“I know what you mean.”
“Well, I could never afford the schooling or the time to go off and study, so I build instead.”
In anticipation, Nate got out two mugs. “You’re a builder?”
“Well, now, I don’t know if I’d say that.
Nothing that fancy, really. I do add-ons, fix things up.
” He patted the tool belt cocked with gunslinger swagger on his hip.
“Swing a hammer. Always something needs to be done around here, so I keep busy. Maybe one of these days I’ll take one of the houses in my head and build it from the ground up. ”
Nathan leaned back against the counter and tried not to drool as Giff poured boiling water into the cone. “Have you done any work at Sanctuary?”
“Sure. This and that. I worked on the crew that remodeled the kitchen for Brian over there. Miz Pendleton’s got in her mind to add on a little bathhouse.
A solarium, like. Something where she can put a Jacuzzi tub and maybe an exercise room.
People look for that kind of thing now when they’re on vacation. I’m putting together a design for her.”
“The south side,” Nathan said to himself. “The light would be right, and it could be worked right into the gardens.”
“Yep, just what I was figuring.” Giff’s smile widened. “I guess I’m on the right track there if you thought the same.”
“I’d like to see your drawings for it.”
“Yeah?” Surprise and pleasure zipped through him. “Great. I’ll bring them by sometime when I got them a little more complete. Better payment than a hundred bucks for the coffee. Drip takes time,” he added, noting the way Nathan was eyeing the slowly filling pot. “The best things do.”
When Nathan was in the shower, sipping his second cup while hot water pounded the back of his neck, he had to agree that Giff was right.
Some things were worth the wait. His mind was clear again, his system all but singing with caffeine.
By the time he was dressed and had downed cup number three, he was primed for the hike to Sanctuary and set for an enormous breakfast.
Both the pickup and Giff were gone when Nathan walked down the steps again. Off to fix up something else, Nathan decided. He knew Giff had been amused when he’d asked him to write down the instructions for brewing drip coffee, step by step. But Nathan dealt better with a clear outline.
He caught himself whistling “I Walk the Line.” Back to Johnny Cash, he thought, with a shake of his head. And he didn’t even like country music.
When he stepped into the forest, dim and green, he deliberately slowed his steps and followed the gentle bend of the river under the arching sway of limbs and moss. Because it always struck him as entering a church, he stopped whistling.
A flutter of color caught his eye, and he stopped to watch a sunny yellow butterfly flit along the path.
To the left, the lances of palmettos, tangled vines, and twisted trunks formed a wall that reached up and up, giving him glimpses of scarlet from the flowering vine, snatches of vivid blue sky through the forks of branches.
Though it was a detour, he kept to the river path a bit longer, knowing that the water would widen and lead him deeper into the cool stillness.
Then he saw her, crouched beside a fallen log. Her baggy jacket was pushed up past her elbows, her hair was pulled back into a stubby tail. She had one knee on the damp ground, the other foot planted for balance.
He couldn’t have said why he found that so attractive. Why he found her so ... interesting.
But he stayed where he was, and remained silent, watching Jo set up her shot.
He thought he knew what she was after. The play of light on the water, the shadows of trees on the dark surface, the faint breath of mist just fading.
A small, intimate miracle. And the way the river curved, just beyond, Nathan thought.
The way it disappeared around that bend where the grass was high and wet and the trees thick made one wonder what could be seen, if you only walked on.
When he saw the doe step out to the left, he stepped forward quietly and crouched behind her. She jolted when he laid a hand on her shoulder, so he squeezed.
“Ssh. To the left,” he murmured near her ear. “Ten o’clock.”
Though her heart had leaped and pounded, Jo shifted the camera. When she focused on the doe, she took a steadying breath and waited.
She caught the doe, head lifted, scenting the air.
Then again her shutter clicked as the deer scanned the river and looked across directly at the two humans, crouched and still.
Her arms began to ache as seconds passed into minutes.
But she didn’t move, unwilling to risk losing a shot.
The reward came when the doe picked her way gracefully through the grass and the yearling slipped out of the trees and joined her at the verge to drink.
Light slanted down in dreamy white shafts that slid like liquid through the faint, swimming mist, and the deers’ tongues sent ripples spreading soft and slow over the dark water.
She would underexpose, just a bit, she thought, to accent that otherworldly aura rather than go for the crisp clarity of reality. The prints should look enchanted, with the faintest of fairy-tale blurs.
She didn’t lower her camera until she’d run out of film, and even then she remained silent, watching while the deer meandered downriver and around the bend.
“Thanks. I might have missed them.”
“No, I don’t think so.”