Chapter 3 #4
I slipped past him, raising my voice as I returned to the kitchen.
“You’re being a busybody, Swansy, and it’s not right.
I know what I want and what I need, and I don’t need a husband any more than I need children.
My life is full.” I grabbed my coat from the chair.
“Very full.” I shoved my arms into the sleeves.
“If I wanted kids, there are a dozen guys up here who would volunteer their services,” I started back toward the parlor, “and if I wanted a husband, I’d find my own.
But I don’t want either. I’m doing fine. Just fine.”
Stalking past Peter, I went to Swansy’s rocker, put a hand on either arm and leaned low to kiss her cheek. “I do love you, though,” I whispered. “You’ll be okay?”
Swansy touched my cheek and nodded.
“Should I put dinner on the table?”
“I can do that myself,” she warbled, but didactically. “I can do it because I’ve accepted my weaknesses and moved on. I’m learning to do things I didn’t think I’d be able to do. I’ve grown.”
Her message couldn’t have been more blunt if she’d framed it in neon and stuck it in front of my nose.
But I couldn’t get angry; I’d used up my allotment for the day.
And this was Swansy. I loved her like—sometimes more than—my mother.
She was there when I needed her, comforting me when I was blue, laughing with me when I was high.
So she’d spoken out of turn this time. She’d earned the right.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow,” I said, then straightened and passed Peter again on my way to the back door.
I had no desire to wait while he said goodbye to Swansy.
I didn’t want to hear any words that might be exchanged between them.
I’d about had it with being the brunt of other people’s good intentions. I was very definitely on the offensive.
Dusk was approaching when I led Peter back down Main Street, then down the lane that led to the dock.
“The Free Reign,” I said, gesturing toward the sturdy trawler that bobbed by the rotting wood pier.
She was secured both bow and stern by heavy ropes that I could only think of as manacles, and the way she tugged at them, while maintaining her pride and presence, reminded me of Cooper.
His house was next on our list of stops. It was conveniently situated at a midway point on the lane. Though smaller than the frame houses that corded Main Street, it was clearly well tended, in fine repair. I wanted Peter to see that.
With a single rap of the brass knocker, I opened the front door, which put me right into the small living room.
Cooper was there, straddling a bench before the fire, creating a work of art with a piece of wood and a small knife.
He was surrounded by shavings. I guessed that he’d been furiously working off his frustration since he’d left my house, but the boat he was carving didn’t seem to be suffering any from the frustration.
It was still in its early stages, still nearly as much a log as a model boat, but there was a gracefulness to the part he’d carved that promised good things ahead.
I wanted Peter to see that, too.
Quietly I crossed to the fire. “Are you okay?”
Cooper’s dark eyes slid past me to Peter, then returned to mine. With a brief nod, he returned to his work.
“I was worried.”
“No need.” He chipped off a sliver of wood, chipped off a second, chipped off a third.
“I’m trying to give Peter a feel for the town.
We’ve been to Swansy’s. I thought we’d stop off at Sam’s for dinner.
Will you join us?” I wanted that more than anything.
Having dinner alone with Peter came second only to spending the night alone in my house with him on a list of things I was dreading.
But Cooper wasn’t cooperating. “Not tonight, Jill. I’m not much in the mood.”
“Maybe it would help cheer you up,” I suggested, but even as I said it, I knew it wouldn’t.
Cooper’s look made that clear. His sharing a table with the big-time lawyer from New York would be broadcasting his dilemma to the world.
It didn’t matter that this world already knew his dilemma; the broadcasting would dig at him much as he dug at his log, chip after chip after chip.
“Is Benjie around?” I asked. Not only did I like the idea of his being with Cooper, but I wanted to introduce him to Peter.
But Cooper said, “He’s not back yet.”
I frowned. “Wasn’t he due back yesterday?”
“He called to say he was staying till tomorrow.”
Benjie Drake and New York City weren’t the best twosome in the world.
Benjie had always been a little on the wild side, and though Cooper rode him hard, there was only so much he could do.
It wasn’t as though Benjie was a kid anymore.
He was an adult. He earned a living working on the boat. Or used to.
“There’s not much for him to do here,” Cooper said in echo of my thoughts. “I don’t much like his being there, but if I raise a stink, he may just decide to stay.” He chipped off one sliver of wood, then another. “I can be patient.”
“Do you do much of this?” Peter asked. He was standing before the stone mantel with his hands in his pockets, pinning his jacket open.
His eyes were on the boat that sat there.
It was a finished model—or as finished as Cooper ever made them.
Upward from midpoint in the hull, it was an intricately carved schooner; downward from that point, it was rough-hewn, blending into the log from which it had been carved and which now served as its stand.
“It’s a hobby,” Cooper said in a flat tone.
Taking one of his hands from his pockets, Peter touched the boat with much the same care that he’d touched my pieces earlier that day.
“I wish I could do this,” he said quietly and with utter sincerity.
“I don’t have any artistic ability at all.
My handwriting’s so bad that in my office, decoding is a major secretarial prerequisite. ”
I watched the way his thumb smoothed wistfully over the wood. “Your strength is with words,” I said. “And legal strategies.”
“Maybe, but I’ve always admired people who could make things like this. Art is way up there, on a plane by itself. It’s a beautiful outlet for a whole world of emotions.”
“Swansy and I were just saying that,” I said on impulse and regretted it seconds later when Peter looked suddenly curious.
“You said it much better than we did, though. You do have a way with words.” I turned quickly to Cooper, who had paused in his whittling to witness my exchange with Peter.
“You’ll be coming over tomorrow afternoon? ”
Cooper hesitated for several seconds, during which his eyes once again told me that he didn’t want to be working with Peter. I held mine steady. No way was I yielding. Peter Hathaway was going to clear Cooper of the charges against him, and that was that.
“I’ll be there,” Cooper said, and there was a tiny movement at the corner of his mouth that, magnified, would have denoted wryness. “If I’m not, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“You’re right.”
“You’re tough.”
Cooper was the one person beside Swansy who knew how untough I really was. “Oh, yeah.” I turned to Peter. “All set?” I wasn’t sure whether he had any questions for Cooper or whether he was satisfied to wait until the next day to really get started.
His touch lingered on Cooper’s boat for a final minute before he returned his hand to his pocket and cocked his head toward the door. With a wave to Cooper, I led Peter on.
We stopped next at the grocery store, where I picked up additional food for the weekend—additional, because though I’d already stocked up on the basics, I knew they weren’t going to be enough.
Part of it had to do with the way Peter had downed two thick tuna sandwiches without blinking.
The other part had to do with his size. He was lean but solid.
His shoulders alone, I figured, would warrant extra bacon and eggs and milk.
When I turned toward Sam’s Saloon after leaving the grocery store, Peter paused. “Shouldn’t we have saved the shopping for last,” he peered into the bag he held, “so nothing spoils?”
“It would have been too late. Claude’s closing.”
“But it’ll be another hour or two until we get back to your place.”
“No problem. Sam has a huge refrigerator. He’ll put the bag there while we eat.
” He did it all the time for me. It was, I supposed, one of the perks of living in a close-knit community.
I couldn’t imagine any of the pricey restaurants that my family frequented in Phillie offering such a service.
But it was a nice touch, like Claude’s keeping my charges on account, payable at my convenience, or Greta’s specialordering me the latest paperback bestsellers from her distributor, who stopped by the drugstore monthly to refill the single small rack with books.
Everyone knew everyone else here, which meant that when I entered Sam’s Saloon with Peter, we created something of a stir. It was a small one; the people who lived here were private, even shy, certainly laconic in the way that was typically Maine. But we had their attention, almost to a man.
With Peter in tow, I headed for the kitchen. I responded personally to those who called out as I passed—a smile for Tom Kaskins, a wave to Joan Tunney, a wink at Stu Schultz. These people were my friends. I enjoyed seeing them. By virtue of their presence, I didn’t feel quite so alone with Peter.
Sam Thorn, owner and chef of the Saloon, was in the kitchen. One look at me and he burst into a grin wide enough to rival his girth. “I knew there was a special reason I made lasagna tonight,” he teased.
I adored his lasagna. Though I’d had lasagna in little Italys around the world, Irish-born Sam’s was the best. Of course, he had the edge on ambiance. The Saloon was a thoroughly relaxing place to be.