Christine Rimmer - Cat's Cradle

“By you?”

She shook her head. “I don’t clean houses. The agency hires a service for that.” She went on briskly, “The water’s on and I turned on the heat a couple of hours ago, so it should be pretty warm by now. I was just trying to get in a little more wood, in case you’d also like a fire. I don’t know who took care of delivering your wood for you, but most of the logs are too big for your stove.”

Dillon experienced the most ridiculous urge then. He wanted to march over to where her ax was embedded in the block and hack up a few logs himself, just so she’d know he was as much of a man as she was. The urge totally astonished him. Lately Dillon thought of himself as grown beyond minor displays of masculine ego.

And besides, he’d probably only end up doing damage to himself if he started showing off with an ax right now. He was still learning to control all the new pins and balls he had where a lot of his joints used to be.

“So anyway,” she was saying, “I’ll just get back to work. I’ll finish up here, then carry a load inside and lay the fire for you.”

He had a better idea. “Listen, forget splitting any more wood for now.”

“But I—”

“Just bring a load into the house and get the fire started. I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, I—”

“And then we’ll have a beer.”

It took her a moment to absorb that suggestion. Then the protests began. “No, I—”

“Come on. For old times’ sake.”

Her glance collided with his for a moment, then shifted away. “No, really, I—”

“Yes.”

She looked at him again, stared straight into his eyes and tried to shake her head. She didn’t succeed. “All right.” The minute the words were out, her face flushed a captivating shade of pink beneath her tan.

“Good.” He strode toward her and brushed past, leading the way before she could change her mind. “The beer’s in my truck. I’ll get it and join you inside.”

From behind him she made a strangled little sound that was probably the beginning of a protest. He didn’t wait to hear the end of it, but trudged away from her as quickly as his rebuilt hips and reconstructed left knee would carry him.

By the time he’d put the Land Cruiser in the garage and let himself into the kitchen, she was standing on the other side of the glass door that opened onto the deck, her arms loaded with firewood. She spotted him through the glass and telegraphed a questioning look. He set down the bag of groceries and the six-pack of long necks he’d brought in with him and hurried across the huge main living area to let her in.

Once inside, she tossed the wood into the box by the wood stove, then pulled off her gloves and stuck them in a back pocket. Dillon went to get two beers from the six-pack on the counter as she knelt to lay and light the kindling. He took a few minutes to empty the bag of groceries and when he returned, she was feeding in a couple of midsize logs. That done, she rose.

He handed her a beer. They both drank. Through the window of the stove, the fire licked at the wood, a cheerful sight.

Dillon gestured in the general direction of a couch and two chairs, which were grouped nearby. “Have a seat.”

Cat shook her head and looked down at her old shirt and khaki work pants. “That couch is beige. And I’ve been under the house checking the pipes.”

He started to tell her he couldn’t care less about the damn couch. But then he decided that the state of her clothing was only an excuse. She didn’t want to sit down. She didn’t want to get too comfortable.

He let it pass and stared out the wall of windows. Beyond the deck the world seemed to drop away into a sea of snow-laden evergreen. In the distance, the mountains overlapped each other, disappearing into a gray veil of afternoon mist.

“I can hardly believe I’m here,” he mused aloud after a moment. He glanced around the big room and then out the windows at the spectacular view once again. “God. It’s beautiful.”

“Yes.”

He lifted the beer and drank, then found himself telling her, “I bought this house seven years ago.”

She made a sound of polite interest, but said nothing.

“It was after my father died. I saw an ad for the place while I was here, so I drove out to see it. I fell in love with it and took it. I think it made me feel that I’d arrived, the fact that I could buy a vacation house just because the mood struck me.”

She spoke then, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’ve done well for yourself, Dillon. You have a right to be proud.”

He studied her, thinking about changes. Pondering the effects of time. Deciding that the way a man saw the world sometimes changed more than the world itself. Like the woman before him.

Sixteen years ago, he hadn’t seen the deep inner calm she possessed. Or the world of strength and dignity in her eyes. Hell. Back then, he hadn’t given a damn for strength and dignity in a woman. He’d thought her tough and mean—and she had been. He was sure she still was when circumstances demanded.

“We heard you had a bad accident a while ago,” she said.

“Yeah. I jumped a man-made volcano at the Mirage in Las Vegas. The jump was a success. Unfortunately my landing left a lot to be desired.”

Now her eyes were kind. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Breaks of the game.”

“Well, at least you look as if you’re recovering well enough.”

“More or less. Everything works, just slower and stiffer.” He raised his beer and drank. “So tell me about home.”

“What about it?”

“Well, the Beaudine family, for starters, I suppose. You can tell me how your mom is and how all your sisters turned out.”

She fiddled with the label on her beer bottle, as if she suspected he’d just thrown her a trick question. “My mother’s remarried.”

“No kidding?”

“Yep. Just a few years ago, to a retired housepainter. She met him playing bingo over at the community hall. You could say he sort of swept her off her feet, I guess. They tied the knot a few months after they met and they live in Tucson now.”

“What about the little ones?”

“Phoebe and Deirdre?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re not so little anymore. Both married, as a matter of fact. Deirdre lives in Loyalton. And Phoebe’s in Portola.”

“Not too far away, then?”

“Right.” She took another sip of beer.

“And how about you? Are you married?”

“Me?” She looked surprised that he’d ask such a question. “No, not me.”

It was the answer he’d expected, but still, he’d wanted to be sure. He was tempted to probe a little deeper on the subject, to ask her why not? just to see how she’d answer. But he decided against that. She was too edgy. Any probing on his part would probably send her flying out the door.

He kept it light and predictable. “How about nieces and nephews? Got any of those yet?”

“Five.” She was fiddling with the bottle’s label again. “Deirdre has three daughters. And Phoebe has two boys.”

“Wow. Now that’s hard to picture. Not only married, but with kids. They were just little girls when I left.”

She sipped from her beer again, looked away and then back.

He went on with the next question. “And what about Adora?”

He saw that he’d blown it as soon as the name was out of his mouth. Cat’s hand tightened around the beer bottle. A moment before she’d been edgy, but now she was ready to get the hell out. He knew exactly what was going through her mind: What in the world was she doing here, sharing a beer with her sister’s old flame?

She forced a tight smile and proceeded to tell him all about Adora. “Adora is just fine. Still single. She has her own beauty shop, right in town on Bridge Street. It’s called the Shear Elegance Salon of Beauty. She lives in an apartment above the shop.”