I frowned.“Wasn’t he due back yesterday?”
“He called to say he was staying till tomorrow.”
Benjie Drake and New York City weren’t the best twosome in the world.Benjie had always been a little on the wild side, and though Cooper rode him hard, there was only so much he could do.It wasn’t as though Benjie was a kid anymore.He was an adult.He earned a living working on the boat.Or used to.
“There’s not much for him to do here,” Cooper said in echo of my thoughts.“I don’t much like his being there, but if I raise a stink, he may just decide to stay.”He chipped off one sliver of wood, then another.“I can be patient.”
“Do you do much of this?”Peter asked.He was standing before the stone mantel with his hands in his pockets, pinning his jacket open.His eyes were on the boat that sat there.It was a finished model—or as finished as Cooper ever made them.Upward from midpoint in the hull, it was an intricately carved schooner; downward from that point, it was rough-hewn, blending into the log from which it had been carved and which now served as its stand.
“It’s a hobby,” Cooper said in a flat tone.
Taking one of his hands from his pockets, Peter touched the boat with much the same carethat he’d touched my pieces earlier that day.“I wish I could do this,” he said quietly and with utter sincerity.“I don’t have any artistic ability at all.My handwriting’s so bad that in my office, decoding is a major secretarial prerequisite.”
I watched the way his thumb smoothed wistfully over the wood.“Your strength is with words,” I said.“And legal strategies.”
“Maybe, but I’ve always admired people who could make things like this.Art is way up there, on a plane by itself.It’s a beautiful outlet for a whole world of emotions.”
“Swansy and I were just saying that,” I said on impulse and regretted it seconds later when Peter looked suddenly curious.“You said it much better than we did, though.You do have a way with words.”I turned quickly to Cooper, who had paused in his whittling to witness my exchange with Peter.“You’ll be coming over tomorrow afternoon?”
Cooper hesitated for several seconds, during which his eyes once again told me that he didn’t want to be working with Peter.I held mine steady.No way was I yielding.Peter Hathaway was going to clear Cooper of the charges against him, and that was that.
“I’ll be there,” Cooper said, and there was a tiny movement at the corner of his mouth that, magnified, would have denoted wryness.“If I’m not, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“You’re right.”
“You’re tough.”
Cooper was the one person beside Swansy who knew how untough I really was.“Oh, yeah.”I turned to Peter.“All set?”I wasn’t sure whether he had any questions for Cooper or whether he was satisfied to wait until the next day to really get started.
His touch lingered on Cooper’s boat for a final minute before he returned his hand to his pocket and cocked his head toward the door.With a wave to Cooper, I led Peter on.
We stopped next at the grocery store, where I picked up additional food for the weekend—additional, because though I’d already stocked up on the basics, I knew they weren’t going to be enough.Part of it had to do with the way Peter had downed two thick tuna sandwiches without blinking.The other part had to do with his size.He was lean but solid.His shoulders alone, I figured, would warrant extra bacon and eggs and milk.
When I turned toward Sam’s Saloon after leaving the grocery store, Peter paused.“Shouldn’t we have saved the shopping for last,” he peered into the bag he held, “so nothing spoils?”
“It would have been too late.Claude’s closing.”
“But it’ll be another hour or two until we get back to your place.”
“No problem.Sam has a huge refrigerator.He’ll put the bag there while we eat.”He did it all the time for me.It was, I supposed, one of the perks of living in a close-knit community.I couldn’t imagine any of the pricey restaurantsthat my family frequented in Phillie offering such a service.But it was a nice touch, like Claude’s keeping my charges on account, payable at my convenience, or Greta’s specialordering me the latest paperback bestsellers from her distributor, who stopped by the drugstore monthly to refill the single small rack with books.
Everyone knew everyone else here, which meant that when I entered Sam’s Saloon with Peter, we created something of a stir.It was a small one; the people who lived here were private, even shy, certainly laconic in the way that was typically Maine.But we had their attention, almost to a man.
With Peter in tow, I headed for the kitchen.I responded personally to those who called out as I passed—a smile for Tom Kaskins, a wave to Joan Tunney, a wink at Stu Schultz.These people were my friends.I enjoyed seeing them.By virtue of their presence, I didn’t feel quite so alone with Peter.
Sam Thorn, owner and chef of the Saloon, was in the kitchen.One look at me and he burst into a grin wide enough to rival his girth.“I knew there was a special reason I made lasagna tonight,” he teased.
I adored his lasagna.Though I’d had lasagna in little Italys around the world, Irish-born Sam’s was the best.Of course, he had the edge on ambiance.The Saloon was a thoroughly relaxing place to be.
And I did relax.After stowing my groceries in Sam’s fridge, I settled across from Peter in a booth and let Sam treat us not only to his lasagna, but to Caesar salad and garlic bread.Sam, himself, kept us company for a bit, then others stopped by to say hello.
They were curious about Peter, I knew.They were also timid, unsure of what to say to him.As mild as he was, as smiling and patient, they were awkward.It didn’t matter that he looked very much like them in his dress, in the wind-muss of his hair and the late-day shadow on his cheeks.In their eyes, he represented glitz, and glitz was foreign to them.
It wasn’t foreign to me, still I knew what they felt.In his own subtle way, Peter was larger than life.He’d seen more, done more than we had, and he ran in circles that I’d given up on fitting into long ago.Had he and I been alone, I’d definitely have felt awkward—though how much of that would have been due to his looks alone, I wasn’t about to wager.Fortunately we weren’t alone for long.
Steven Willow, whose family had run the hardware store for three generations, stopped by to quietly ask what I thought about his buying a computer.“To keep watch on inventory,” he told me.“Paulie says we should.”
“Paul is a student at the Community College,” I told Peter.“He’s taking business courses.”To Steve, I said, “It’s worth looking into.Computers cost less now than they used to.Would you wantto use one?”I knew that the major force against modernization in a town like this was habit.Steve’s answer supported that.
