Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

At the door of the cottage, Bettina rapped with a mitten-covered knuckle on the wooden panel. There was no immediate response so, after a moment, she rapped on it again, a little harder this time to make up for the muffling of the wool. She stepped back when she heard movement on the other side of the door. It was well she did. The door was flung open, banging on the log wall beside it, and then the Recluse was standing there, filling the doorway with her height. She regarded them each for a long moment, before her gaze settled on Ellie.

“So,” she said. “You’ve finally come.”

Bettina could readily appreciate the return of Ellie’s shyness in the face of the Recluse’s brusque manner.

“Um,” Ellie began. “Did you leave…” She pulled off a mitten and dug into the pocket of her parka, producing a creased business card. “Did you leave this in the van for me?”

“Yes, yes,” the Recluse told her, obviously impatient.

“So your name is Musgrave Wood?”

“It’s as good as any.”

Ellie cleared her throat. “Why did you—”

“Come inside,” the woman said, stepping aside. “You’re letting all the cold in.”

Ellie went first. Before Donal could follow, the Recluse moved forward to block the door again. She reached for its inner handle and gave them each another considering look, her gaze lingering longer on Bettina.

“Go amuse yourselves,” she finally said and pulled the door shut in their faces.

Bettina blinked in surprise, then turned to look at Donal.

“Jaysus,” he said. “Your man’s not exactly polite, is he?”

“She,” Bettina told him.

“She?”

“She’s a woman, not a man.”

Donal gave a slow nod. “That’s right. Ellie said something about that. But still. Bloody hell. It’s cold out here.”

Bettina had been looking at the cottage again. Now she returned her attention to him, noting the darkness in his eyes. She doubted it had all that much to do with the Recluse’s rudeness.

Why are you so angry anyway? she wanted to ask, but instead she said, “Would you like to come back to the house for something to drink? Some cocoa or coffee?”

“You wouldn’t have any Guinness, would you?”

She shook her head. “There might be a Corona.”

He pulled a face. “Coffee’lldo.”

¡Por supuesto! Now she was stuck with him for who knew how long? May Santa Irene give her patience. Too long in Donal’s company and she’d be pouring the coffee over his head. Whatever did his friend see in him?

“So speaking of yourself,” Donal said as they walked back toward the house. “Would you be an artist or a writer?”

“Neither. I just model for some of the artists.”

“Ah.”

She gave him a sharp look.

“Gentle, now,” he said. “I only meant that you’d be a delight to paint. There’s so much character in your features.”

¡Y qué! Bettina suppressed a sigh.

“I suppose you’re an artist?” she asked.

He nodded. “It’s the one thing I don’t screw up.”

Bettina stopped. She thought that was probably the first honest thing he’d said since he’d arrived.

Donal took another step before he realized she wasn’t coming. Turning, he looked back at her.

“Why do you think that is?” she asked.

He regarded her for a long moment. “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. Don’t you think it’s a bit early in the day to be philosophizing? We don’t even have a pint in us yet.”

She nodded and started to walk again, leading him to the kitchen door, fust before they went in, he caught her arm. She looked pointedly down at his hand until he let go.

“Look,” he said. “We’re getting off on the wrong foot. I don’t mean to be such a shite. It just happens. I don’t even know what I’m saying ’till the words’re out of my bloody mouth.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“But I want to.”

She waited.

“You’re not making this easy,” he went on. Before she could speak, he held up a hand. “I know, I know. There’s no reason you should. It’s just… I’m not much good with the social graces, you see, so I act like an eejit.” He gave her a quick smile. She could tell he was trying, but the warmth still didn’t quite reach his eyes. “When I’m painting, it’s the only time I feel like I have… you know… any worth….”

His voice trailed off. Bettina considered him for a moment. She could feel a fetish taking shape in her mind, how she would define him if he came to her for healing. She could see the stitches, knew the milagro she would choose. There would be paint pigment mixed in with the dirt. Cobalt blue, definitely. A touch of raw sienna.

“Perhaps,” she said, “you should approach the rest of life as though you had a paintbrush in hand.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. This time, when his lips twitched, the smile reached his eyes.

“That’s good, you know,” he said. “It’s worth a try.”

She shrugged, not entirely sure if he meant it.

“Go on inside,” she told him, “and warm up. I’m just going to top up the birdfeeders and then I’ll put on a pot of coffee for us.”

“Let me help.” When she hesitated, he added, “I’ll keep my gob shut.”

“Gob?”

“My mouth. I mean I’ll be quiet.”

“Bueno,” she said. “We keep the seed in the shed out back.”

True to his word, he held his peace, and surprisingly, the silence that fell between them as they measured out seed and filled the feeders wasn’t uncomfortable.

Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Bettina found herself thinking, but then she had to smile at herself. And maybe el cuervo could bleach its black wings and pass itself off as a dove. But it wasn’t likely. Like a crow, this Donal Greer was no innocent. Let the smile reach his eyes. But beneath the kindly charm he presented to her now, a darkness remained….

Y bien. It wasn’t her problem.

The day wasn’t unfolding at all the way Ellie had expected it would. Which, she decided, was becoming the story of her life, really. Just consider how well things had gone yesterday morning when Henry Patterson threw his control-freak hissy fit, ha-ha. Bloody hell, as Donal would say. She’d much prefer sailing through life on an even keel to the seesawing highs and lows that the weekend had produced so far, but what could you do? Unless you were Jillv or Miki—both of whom seemed to be gifted with the innate ability to spin some kind of gold out of the worst situation’s straw—you simply had to take what was thrown at you and make the best of it.

And when you thought about, she really shouldn’t complain. Take the good with the bad, as her mother would always say. Unlike the people she and Tommy saw most nights driving the Angel Outreach van, she at least had ups to compensate for the otherwise less-than-wonderful parts of her life.

Patterson had ruined yesterday morning, it was true, and he might well kill any potential she had to make a career as a portraitist of the city’s business community, but she’d had a good time at the dance last night and it had been nice to get to know Hunter as more than a face behind the counter at the record store. And Hunter had seemed attracted to her as well, which was no small thing for a woman to whom the word “date” had simply come to mean the edible fruit of a palm tree. So he couldn’t hold his liquor. So he’d had to go home early. That was no big deal. Considering how much Donal could put away—“I’m your man for the gargle,” as he liked to put it—and how their relationship had gone, she wouldn’t mind if the next man in her life was a complete teetotaler.