The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (76 page)

It surprised him, and caused Jaws untold sorrow, when she wasn’t there. Nor were the dogs. Maybe she’d taken off for some solitude and distraction.

Jaws perked up when Gary arrived shortly with his chirpy border collie, Butch.

Gary, a cap over his grizzled hair, thick lenses over faded green eyes, watched the pups greet each other. “Coupla pips,” he said.

“At least. Fiona’s not home, but I told her I’d be by for the stump.”

“Got unit practice up in the park. They do a day of it once a month. Keep in tune, you know? Would’ve headed out at first light, most likely. Well, let’s get the Cat off the truck and go get you a stump. What the hell do you want it for?”

“You never know.”

“You sure don’t,” Gary agreed.

They lowered the ramp, and Gary backed the machine down. With the two dogs on board, they putted their way into the woods.

“I appreciate this, Gary.”

“Hell, it’s no big thing. Nice day to be out and about.”

It was, Simon thought. Warm enough, sunny, with little signs of encroaching spring showing themselves. The dogs panted in desperate joy, and Gary smelled—lightly—of fertilizer.

When they reached the stump, Gary hopped out, circled it, shoved his cap back to scratch his head. “This what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll get her. I knew a guy once made statues out of burl wood and a chain saw. This isn’t any stranger.”

They hauled out the chain, discussed strategies, baseball, dogs.

Simon tied the dogs to a tree to keep them out of harm’s way while Gary began maneuvering the machine.

It took an hour, and considerable sweat, re-angling, reversing, resetting the chain.

“Easy!” Simon called out, grinning widely. “You’ve got it now. She’s coming.”

“Cocksucker put up a fight.” Gary set the machine to idle when the stump rolled free. “You got yourself a stump.”

Simon ran his gloved hand over the body, along one of the thick roots. “Oh yeah.”

“Happiest I’ve seen you look since I met you. Let’s get her in the bucket.”

Once they were rolling out of the woods, the bucket full of stump, Gary glanced over. “I want you to let me know what you do with that thing.”

“I’m thinking a sink.”

Gary snorted. “You’re going to make a sink out of a stump?”

“The base of it, yeah. Maybe. If it cleans up like I think it will. I’ve got this round of burl wood could work as the basin. Add high-end contemporary fixtures, half a million coats of poly. Yeah, maybe.”

“That beats a chain saw and burl wood for strange. How much would something like that go for?”

“Depends, but if this works like I see it? I can sell it for about eight.”

“Eight hundred dollars for a stump sink?”

“Thousand.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Upscale Seattle gallery? Might get ten.”

“Ten thousand dollars for a sink. Fuck me sideways.”

Simon had to grin. “One of a kind. Some people think of it as art.”

“Some people have shit for brains. No offense.”

“Some people do—no offense taken. I’ll let you know when it’s finished, whatever it turns out to be. You can take a look for yourself.”

“I’m doing that. Wait until I tell Sue,” he said, speaking of his wife. “She won’t believe it.”

B
y the time he and Gary hauled the stump home and unloaded it, Simon considered skipping the trip to town and just staying put to play with his new toy. He’d already drafted half a dozen design possibilities in his head.

But the stock sat in his truck, packed and ready. If he didn’t go now, he’d have to go later, so he gave Jaws the thrill of another ride with the window half down, the dog’s snout pressed through the opening, and his ears flapping in the breeze.

“Why do you do that?” Simon wondered. When Jaws banged his tail against the seat in answer, Simon stuck his head out his own window. “Huh. Feels pretty good, actually. Next time you drive and I’ll catch the breeze.”

He tapped his fingers on the wheel in time with the radio while he refined and discarded more designs on the sketch pad in his head. The physical labor combined with the creative possibilities, the dog’s sheer and simple pleasure combined in a near perfect mix that had him grinning his way into the village. He’d finish his errand, go home, study his material, measure, then take a walk on the beach to let the ideas stew. Top it off with some design work over a beer, maybe a pizza, and it was a damn good day.

And that, he thought, was the answer to Fiona’s question.

Why Orcas?

Water drew him—kicky surf on beaches, wide river, busy creeks, quiet inlets. That yen had pulled him from Spokane to Seattle. That, he mused, and the city itself—its style, its openness to art. The nightlife, the movement, he supposed, had appealed at that stage of his life.

As Nina had, for a while.

He’d had good years there. Interesting, creative, successful years. But . . .

Too many people, too much movement and not enough space.

He liked the idea of an island. Self-contained, just a little apart and surrounded by water. Those wicked, twisting roads offered countless views of blue and green and the pretty boats that plied it, the green-knuckled clumps of rough land that seemed to float on it.

If he wanted more he could drive into a village, have a meal, watch the tourists. If he wanted solitude, he could stay home—his island on the island. Which, he admitted, was his usual choice.

And which, he thought with a glance toward Jaws, was why his mother had pushed a dog on him.

Watching those ears flap and the tail thump, he acknowledged his mother was right. Again.

He pulled in the back of Sylvia’s shop and raised the windows, leaving a three-inch crack. “You stay here. Don’t eat anything.” At the last minute he remembered
distraction
, reached over and took a chew toy from the glove box.

“Play with this,” he ordered.

When he carted in the first load, he caught the scent of home cooking—a little spicy—and spotted a Crock-Pot on the shipping counter.

He poked his head into the shop. Sylvia, pretty and bright in one of her colorful skirts, chatted up a customer while her clerk rang up sales for another.

Business was good, he thought. Another plus for the day.

He gave her a quick wave, started to back out.

“Simon! This is perfect timing. This is Simon Doyle,” she told the customer. “Simon, Susan’s over from Bainbridge Island. She’s interested in your wine cabinet.”

Sylvia gave him a blinding smile and a subtle “Come over here” signal.

This was the part he hated. But trapped, he stepped over.

“I was just telling Susan how lucky we are you moved to Orcas and let us display your work. Susan came over for the day with her sister. Also lucky for us.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Susan offered a hand sporting a perfect French manicure and a canary diamond. “It’s beautiful work.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed his hand on his jeans. “Sorry. I’ve been working. I’m just dropping off some new pieces.”

“Anything as impressive as this?”

“Smaller pieces, actually.”

The sister wandered over, holding an earring up to each ear. “Susan, which pair?”

Susan angled her head, tipped it side to side. “Both. Dee, this is the man who made the bowl I’m buying for Cherry’s birthday, and this cabinet I can’t seem to walk away from. Simon Doyle.”

“I love the bowl.” Dee gave Simon’s hand a hard, fast shake. “But she saw it first. Sylvia said you might be persuaded to make another.”

“Simon’s just brought some new pieces in.”

“Really?” Dee glanced from Sylvia back to Simon. “Any bowls?”

“A couple,” he began.

“Why don’t I go unpack so you can take a look,” Sylvia suggested.

“That’d be great. First pick,” Dee said, giving her sister a little poke.

“There’s more in the truck. I’ll go—”

“No, no, I’ll take care of it.” Sylvia patted Simon’s arm, then gave it a warning squeeze. “Why don’t you tell Susan more about the cabinet? It’s our current showpiece,” she added, then glided off before Simon could find an escape hatch.

He hated the selling part, the feeling of being on display as much as the work.

“I love the tones of the wood.” Susan traced a hand down the grain. “And then the detail. It’s elegant without being ornate and showy.”

“It suits you.”

Her face lit up. “That’s a clever thing to say.”

“I’d tell you if it didn’t. You like the understated and the unique. You don’t mind if it’s impractical, but you’re happier if it serves a purpose.”

“God, you nailed her. Psychic woodworker,” Dee said with a laugh. “You’d better buy it, Susan. It’s karma.”

“Maybe it is.” Susan opened the doors again, slid open one of the drawers. “Smooth as silk. I appreciate good work.”

“Me too.” He noted that Sylvia had stocked it with some excellent wineglasses and a couple bottles of good wine.

“How long have you been working with wood?”

“According to my mother, since I was two.”

“Time well spent. Sylvia said you moved to the island. From where?” He felt his skin begin to itch. “Spokane via Seattle.”

“Doyle,” Dee murmured. “I think I read something about you and your work some time ago, in the art section.”

“Maybe.”

Susan tilted her head again, as she had when judging her sister’s earring choices. “Not much on self-promotion, are you?”

“The work should speak for itself.”

“I absolutely agree with that, and in this case, it does. I’m buying it.”

“Ladies,” Sylvia called from the doorway. “Why don’t you come into the stockroom. Dee, I think we have your bowl. Simon, I brought the puppy in. I hope you don’t mind. I know this is taking a little longer than you planned, and he was so happy to see me.”

“A puppy.”

“Careful,” Dee said as her sister bolted for the stockroom. “She’ll want to buy him, too. She’s wild about dogs.”

It took another thirty minutes, with Sylvia cagily blocking his escape and Jaws being stroked and cuddled into delirium. He loaded boxes and bags into their car and decided the entire event had been more exhausting than pulling a stump.

Sylvia dragged him back into the stockroom and into a circling dance while Jaws barked and leaped. “Simon! Those two women didn’t just make our day, they made our week! And they’ll be back, oh yes, they’ll be back. Every time Susan looks at her wine cabinet, or the vase, or Dee uses the bowl, they’ll think of the shop, and of you. And they’ll be back.”

“Go, team.”

“Simon, we sold pieces as we unpacked them. And the cabinet? I honestly thought we’d have it on display until well into the tourist season. You have to make me another!” She plopped down on the little sofa where she’d served her two customers lemon water.

“Then I’d better get to work.”

“Be excited. You just made an excellent amount of money.
Ch-ching
. And we sold pieces that those two ladies will enjoy. Really enjoy. My day needed a lift, and this really did it.”

She bent down to pet Jaws. “I’m worried about Fee. There was an article on Perry and the recent murders in
U.S. Report
this morning. I went by to see her, but she was already gone. Her unit works today.”

“I heard.”

“I talked to Laine, her mother. We both decided not to call her while she’s out practicing.”

“You talk to her mother?”

“Laine and I have a good relationship. We both love Fee. I know she’ll have heard about the article by now, and I know it’ll upset her. You could do me a big favor.”

He felt his skin start to itch again. “What kind of favor?”

“I made her minestrone.” She gestured to the Crock-Pot. “And a round of rosemary bread. She should be getting home soon, if she’s not home already. Would you take it by?”

“Why? You should take it by.”

“I would. I planned to, but it occurs to me it’d be good to have someone else around, someone closer to her own age. And this one.” She stroked Jaws again. “It’s hard to be blue around this guy.”

She tipped up her face, and even knowing she was using her eyes deliberately, he couldn’t fight it.

“Would you mind, Simon? I get so emotional when I think of what she went through. I might make it worse. I’d really feel better if I knew she had a good meal, maybe a little company.”

 

 

HOW WAS IT, Simon wondered, that some women could talk you into doing the opposite of what you wanted to do?

His mother had the same talent. He’d watched her, listened, attempted to evade, maneuver, outfox—and she could, without fail, nudge him in the opposing direction.

Sylvia was cut from the same cloth, and now he had a Crock-Pot and a loaf of bread, an assignment—and that contemplative walk on the beach was over before it had begun.

Was he supposed to let Fiona cry on his shoulder now? He hated being the shoulder. He never knew what to say or do.

Pat, pat, there, there. What the fuck?

Plus, if she had any sense—and he thought she did—she’d want solitude, not company.

“If people let other people alone,” he told Jaws, “people would be better off. It’s always people that screw things up for people anyway.”

He’d just give her the food and take off. Better all around. Here you go,
bon appétit
. Then, at least, he’d have his studying, measuring time, his design time over pizza and a beer.

Maybe she wasn’t back yet. Better. He could just leave the pot and loaf on the porch and be done with it.

The minute he turned into her drive, Jaws perked up. The pup danced on the seat, planted his paws on the dash. The fact that he could without doing a header to the floor caused Simon to realize the dog had grown considerably in the last couple weeks.