The Forever Stone (6 page)

Timothy’s smile encouraged her to go on. “The doctor-uncle?”

Uncle Ashton’s speech still rankled. With a curt nod, she said, “It wasn’t just that. But I’d have hated to work with him, he’s so . . . arrogant. That’s a doctor for you. You’d think he’d keep busy enough with his adoring patients.”

Timothy bent over his mug. Was that a smile glimmering on the wrinkled face?

The man across from her had listened in silence, but now he chose another cookie from the plate and gazed at it. “Excellent cookies,” he said, “apples, and walnuts, and some flavor I can’t quite identify.”

“Cinnamon.”

“And you want to improve on this?” He had a warm, mellow voice that put her at ease.

“Not this recipe—it’s an old favorite, and I’ve tinkered with it long enough. But the whole baking scene intrigues me, there’s so much to learn.”

“More than you could get from a cookbook?” Timothy asked.

“Yes, insights, professional tips, history. I can do cookies and pies, but I don’t know much about baking with yeast, for example.”

She wouldn’t tell them her idea of becoming a pastry chef. Her mother thought it ridiculous, and Brenn had too.

But Timothy looked as if he understood dreams, and his friend eyed her thoughtfully. His gaze was somewhat diagnostic, as if he were estimating the volume of blood in her veins.

Blood? Oh, no, was he—?

“You’re the doctor, aren’t you?” When would she learn not to spout her opinions? “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

His eyes glinted with amusement. “Don’t worry about it. After all, you didn’t know you were speaking to a medical deity.”

Even worse. He’d heard that from Timothy .

The doctor took a bite of his cookie, chewed slowly, reflectively. “I’ve met doctors who are exactly as you have described. But you may find that they’re not all alike.”

His reasonable tone was disarming. “Perhaps I should give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said, the doubt lingering in her voice.

“I hope so, Mrs. Burke. Perhaps you will even change your mind.”

“That’s a generous response.”

“It’s a self-serving response, since I’m sitting here eating your cookies. And I have a project that could use your expertise.”

She should have left when she had the chance. She glanced at Timothy. “Did I mention ‘opportunistic’?”

He looked wise and said nothing.

The doctor nodded, as if he would agree to any shortcoming she cared to mention, but she stiffened her resolve. “I’m sure you can construct a sentence properly,” she said.

“I just thought you could give me an opinion, since you’re a professional.”

“But I don’t edit, not anymore. I don’t teach English anymore, either.” Nothing that would remind her of Dad and his ruffians or the stories they wrote.

The gray eyes challenged her. “You really don’t want to do this. I wonder why.”

Persistent, wasn’t he? She’d give him something to think about.

“Here’s one reason, doctor. People say, ‘Tell me what you think,’ but what they mean is, ‘Tell me my work is good.’ And if I can’t say that, their feelings get hurt. If I presume to give advice, they don’t listen. It all comes down to a matter of ego, and I’m done with that.”

He leaned back in his chair, and his eyes still had a cool gray look but the corners of his mouth turned up.

“What do you find so amusing, Dr. Parnell?” She used his title deliberately, edged it with a trace of disrespect.

“At risk of offending you, Mrs. Burke, I was thinking that you probably had no trouble controlling your students.”

”What do you mean?”

“A glance like the one you just gave me. I’ve seen glaciers with that blue-green color.”

“I got along well with my students.”

“I would work as hard as any of them.”

More determined than most. She frowned at her mug, aligned it with her plate. Loosen up. Perhaps he deserved a chance.  

“I think you’re reading the wrong script,” she said. “This is where you’re supposed to give me a cold stare and walk off, clutching your papers to your manly chest.”

He grinned, a quick boyish grin that transformed the scarred face. “You’ll look at it?”

“Tell me why it’s so important.”

Timothy pulled himself to his feet, smiling, and reached for the kettle. “More tea, anyone?”

The doctor described his high-school English teacher, now a family friend and successful writer. Her latest project was to edit a collection of essays about Alaska, and she had asked him to submit a chapter for the book.

“I’ve done three drafts,” he said, “but it’s missing something. I can’t disappoint her with work that’s second-rate.”

“Will you give me a copy?”

“Our printer just died,” Timothy said. “The new one should arrive next week.”

The doctor leaned forward. “If you wouldn’t mind coming over to my office—it’s just next door—you could read it on my laptop.”

But she
would
mind, very much.

She looked a question at Timothy and he nodded, so she said, “Why not bring your laptop over here?”

“That’s a good idea,” Timothy said. “If you’ll excuse me, I hear a customer. Our Friday afternoon rush, you know.”

At least the man had enough sense not to watch her read it. He set up his laptop on the table, opened the document, and went to stand in front of the window.

She read with care, scrolling back once or twice to check what he’d said on a previous page. Length was suitable, content original. Technically, it was flawless. Depending on what the editor wanted, it might do. But it could be better.

Without looking at him, she said, “It is informative, doctor. Shaped well. Sentences properly put together. You might work on some of the passive constructions.”

He left the window and sat down across from her. “Mrs. Burke.”

Reluctantly she met his eyes, caught his don’t-kid-me look.

“It isn’t very good.” His voice was as crisp as his writing. “Can it be fixed?”

Might as well find out. For Timothy’s sake, she’d do her best.

“I think it can, but it will cost you.”

“What do you charge?”

“I’m not talking about money. If you want to work on it, you’ll see what I mean.”

“I want to work on it,” he said quietly.

“Remember, you’re the one who said that.” She took a slow breath, thinking through an approach. “How long since you left Alaska?”

“Four years.”

“How long did you live there?”

“Most of my life.”

“Good. Now I’d like you to go sit down on that sofa, lean back, and close your eyes. Talk about someone in Alaska who made a deep impression on you.”

As he stood, he paused and gave her a look she couldn’t interpret.

He started in a monotone, telling her about Denny Woods, the young Inuit who’d sold him his first dogs.

His voice warmed as he described how they became friends, went hunting, and ran their dogs together. Denny didn’t have much of a problem with alcohol, just took a drink now and then. He’d prayed for Denny and had seen him start coming to their little church.

“One day—” He sounded as if the words were choking him. “One day, Denny hitched a plane ride to McGrath with a friend of his, a pilot who’d had a few at the bar. Their plane went down somewhere in the Alaska Range. We never did find it.”

He stood to his feet with a jerk, but when he finally spoke, his voice was impersonal. “Is that enough of a story for you, Mrs. Burke?”

She suppressed her pity. Plenty of emotion there. If he could manage it, the writing would be good.

She waited, not answering, letting him collect himself. He went over to pour himself another mug of tea. He picked up her mug and filled it too.

Finally he sat down at the table and looked at her.

She kept her voice as detached as his. “Thank you, doctor. The reason I had you do that is because your piece has all of its necessary body parts, but it is clinically dead. No pulse.”

He frowned, but she ignored him.

“And here my analogy breaks down because you can give it life. As it stands, it’s merely a documentary. To be effective, it needs heart—some reality, some passion.”

She glanced up. The gray eyes burned with intensity, and she continued with more assurance. “When you told me about Denny, I saw that heart. You chose well. His story fits with your topic. If you can weave it into what you’ve written, you’ll succeed.”

He was quiet for a minute. She hadn’t expected a burst of gratitude, but to see the lines deepen on his face was disconcerting.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll work on it.” He stood to his feet and pulled out his cell phone, presumably to check for messages. While he was doing that, she slid her laptop into its bag and left.

Timothy was waiting on a customer. Just as well, because she didn’t feel like talking. That look on the doctor’s face . . . It wasn’t an offended ego. Pain, maybe. Pain related to something more than the death of a good friend. Why had he left Alaska?

Back at the Manor, she decided to do one more thing today—work on that cluttered old library she and Bria had found.

Before long she was sorting through books, sneezing as she crammed the useless ones into boxes. Dust! She eyed the plum-colored draperies, took up a handful of velvet, and pulled. It came away in her hand with the sigh of rotted fabric. She sneezed again. These had to come down.

It was while she was standing on a box unhooking the draperies that she discovered the window seat. If she cleared off the boxes, it would make a good place to sit and look at the view. 

First, get this finished. She bundled the draperies into a super-sized trash bag, vacuumed everything including the brown couch, and marked the boxes to be discarded. As she shelved the last of the books, a convention of squabbling blue jays made her look out the window. Below, the forest spread in all directions, mysterious and inviting. Aunt Lin liked to jog there, on the many paths.

In Roanoke, too, there were hiking paths. She and Dad used to . . .

Her fingernails dug into the window frame. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about the hikes. Don’t risk it, not for a minute.

She turned away. It was almost dusk, and if she could discipline her thoughts, a walk would do her good. She could check on those Dumont ruins, run for a while, and wear herself out.

That night she slept well, for once, but she awoke at dawn to wonder about Bria—such a mysterious young woman. Would her little brother be the same? Bria had said he liked to eat. If she had pancakes waiting for him, maybe they’d get off to a good start.

By eight o’clock she was ready, and just in time. When she opened the door, the dog brushed past with easy familiarity, but Jude hung back, as if unsure of his welcome. He was thin and wiry, shorter than Bria.

“Hi, Jude,” she said. “We sure can use your help today.”

“Hello.” He gave her an assessing look from somber black eyes.

She returned his look with equal gravity. “I’m especially glad you came because otherwise I’d have to eat all the pancakes myself.”

His eyebrows shot up into a fringe of shaggy brown hair. “Pancakes?” He glanced sideways at his sister, as if to ask whether this person was for real.

A smile tugged at the corners of Bria’s mouth. “She likes to cook.”

The expression on his face altered, enough for Madeleine to know that she had gained points in his estimation. “C’mon,” she said. “Let’s eat.”

Jude ate nine large pancakes. He didn’t say much beyond a quiet ‘thank you’ each time she refilled his plate, but Bria emerged from her silence to offer a comment: “I told you he likes to eat. I think that’s why he likes to cook. Someday he’s going to weigh three hundred pounds.”

Jude ignored the sisterly remark and put down his fork with a sigh. “Okay, show me to the work. I’m ready.” Lockie, who had been sleeping at Bria’s feet, rose and stretched, looking expectant.

After they finished sorting and cleaning in the library, Madeleine said, “Let’s do some more exploring. I want to see what’s in those old trunks.”

The largest trunk, to Jude’s evident disappointment, was filled with ball gowns. “I wonder who wore them,” Madeleine said. “The lacework is priceless.” She wrote an entry in her notebook. “Jude, please put a piece of masking tape on the lid and write a big number one on it. Let’s see what’s over here.”

Trunk number two held more gowns, trunk number three held children’s clothes, and trunk number four was filled with blankets that smelled of mothballs. By the time they started on the last trunk, Jude had wandered off to look at the stuffed owl.