Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Jonah grunts. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“And they’re staying with you?”
“Yeah. Up at the house.” He nods toward their place, a green-roofed log cabin on a peninsula that juts out into the lake. “Calla’s been busy getting everything ready. Between that and this place, and all the stuff she’s doing for the farmers’ market, she’s dog-tired. Can barely stay awake at night.” There’s a hint of reverence in his voice when he speaks about his wife.
Another clatter and curse sounds inside.
“I better go and get that level.” Louder, Jonah hollers, “Be back in a minute, Roy.”
A grumble is the only answer he gets.
“Take a look around inside if you want. Ignore him.” Jonah hops on the ATV and takes off for the old shed next to the hangar.
I climb the porch steps and stroll through the open door, inhaling the scent of wood that permeates the air. Whereas my little log cabin in the woods is nothing more than a room divided into sections for living and sleeping and eating, with a bathroom carved into the back corner, this is a real home—all new and clean and fresh—with an eat-in kitchen on the left and living room on the right, and stairs behind the kitchen that lead up to the bedrooms.
It’s not large, but I’ve been to Agnes’s bungalow before, and it’s more space than what they’re leaving behind.
And it’s currently occupied by a crusty old Texan wearing sawdust-coated jeans and a deep scowl while he chisels out the slots for door hinges. The pine door to the bathroom leans against the wall, waiting to be hung.
“Hey, Roy.”
He pauses in his work to look up. The scowl softens a touch. “Oh. It’s you. Hi, Marie.”
That’s as much enthusiasm as I’ll get from the old grouch who Calla has dubbed the Curmudgeon, but it’s more than what most receive.
I’ve always thought Roy an interesting fellow—a hermit with a southern twang who hides in the woods and has gone to great lengths to scare people away while he spends his days building stunning furniture and his nights whittling wood into artful collectibles. It’s Calla of all people who has wormed a hole through his prickly exterior. He moans and he growls, and yet apparently he’s making appearances here almost every day now, whether it’s to work on one of the many buildings on the property or to trim their goat’s hooves or use Calla’s computer.
“This place is looking fantastic.”
He juts his bearded chin toward the manufactured kitchen cabinets. “I told Calla not to hire those people, but she never listens to me. So? This is what she gets. Goddamn cheap, crooked cabinets.”
The cabinets look straight to me, but I know better than to say that. Roy is a carpenter by trade, and fussy to a fault. “I’m sure you’ll be able to fix it for them.”
He mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch, and it’s probably for the best.
“So? Have you been building anything new and exciting in that shop of yours?”
“Bed frames for Agnes and the girl. Mabel.” He adds after a moment, as if coaching himself to remember—and use—names. I suppose that’s what happens when you spend decades shunning everyone. You have to relearn basic social graces.
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.” They’re coming with nothing but their suitcases. It’s not worth the cost of flying their furniture here, and there are no roads that connect the two sides. The place is already furnished with a few staple pieces to get Agnes and Mabel settled—a kitchen table and chairs, a soft gray couch, and a TV near the woodstove.
“As if I had a choice in the matter. You know Calla. Always gets what she wants, eventually.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” A spark of envy stirs inside me. As I look around this perfect life, she seems to have gotten everything she could’ve wanted, and a lot she never imagined.
I feel Roy’s shrewd gaze on me. He’s no fool. Thankfully, he keeps whatever thoughts inside his head to himself. “I was thinking I need to come by to see Oscar and Gus soon. They’re due for their shots.” More like overdue, but Roy isn’t the type to bring his dogs in for regular checkups. I doubt those two had ever seen a veterinarian before last summer, when Calla called me in a panic because Oscar was caught in a trap. I was able to save his leg, but he’ll forever walk with a limp.
“Whatever you say, Doc.”
Roy also may not be the type to book appointments—he doesn’t even have a phone—but we’ve fallen into an arrangement: He doesn’t argue when I ignore his multitude of No Trespassing signs and show up to check on them, and I don’t mention the fact that his dogs are more wolf than the malamutes he claims them to be, and those are illegal to own in the state of Alaska.