So, he hasn’t always lived here.
I compared the textbooks to the titles on the shelf, and it took me forever to catch on.
He’d packed away the things he’d learned and kept the others out because hestill read them. Family heirloom or second-hand find, he read The Bible often enough he didn’t want to lock it away in his trunk every time.
Same with the poetry and classic novels. They were his entertainment. And no one kept their television in the bottom of a trunk.
Wow, did he need to get out of Dodge.
I put all the books back the way I found them, covered them with the old plaid, and searched the other end of the box. A few pair of thick socks were rolled into balls and so were some very large boxer briefs. I had to unroll one to see what it was, then I couldn’t get it back into a ball again, so I hid it in the bottom.
A high pile of various fabrics were folded neatly with small square rags on the top. Beyond that pile, propped on its side, was a fat, leather-bound journal, but when I flicked it open, there were no lines. Only a few scribbles and a lot of sketches. I didn’t know what kind of art class he’d taken, but I did see that his skill had steadily improved.
The first entries were of cars, trucks, and bicycles. A map with place names I didn’t know. Then came a few airplanes, though they were small and had little detail, like he’d only seen them from the ground and not close up. The train engine was just the opposite—it had every possible detail, perfect proportions, and artful shading. And after the train, an intricate drawing of a bridge from three different angles.
A few pages of stags were followed by close studies of horns, and then some sketches of knife hilts like the ones he’d collected in the trunk. A picture of a man, maybe sixty, identified as John. A laughing smile and beauty mark by his eye. Minimal hair, short and spiked on the top of his head.
After that, there were a dozen different drawings of an old woman, practiced over and over again. Slightly different each time, but always wearing the same scarf on her head, always lots of curls trying to escape. Like mine. Her skirt was plaid, and she sometimes wore a shawl over her blouse.
The final drawing of her filled a page. Her laughing eyes were so realistic, I felt like she was looking at me. Seeing me.
“Hello,” I said quietly, then tried to make out the handwriting at the bottom.H. A. N. N. A. H.“Hello, Hannah.”
Hannah!
The name in the bible. The name carved into the table. The name in the book of poetry.
Don’t freak out.
In the olden days, names were repeated all the time. Could be three different Hannahs all in the same family, or each one a hundred years apart. The Hannah in the bible in the 1700’s couldn’t be the same one in the drawings because there were pictures of cars in that book. And airplanes.
Kee-un would know who they all were. I just had to wait for him to wake up. And in the meantime, I would take every vegetable I could find and put them on to boil. When he woke up, I’d dash out to the barn and grab that salt.
I obviously couldn’t leave until tomorrow, so…might as well cook.
Tap tap, t’tap tap tap.
In the fearsome wind, a stalk of heather had come loose from the roof and now dangled beside the window above Cian’s bed. No doubt a hundred more had done the same, and once thestorm was well and gone, he’d need to replace them before the next rain came.
There was nothing he hated more than being rained upon inside his own home.
The aggressive roil of boiling water was a sound that had him bolting upright and throwing his legs off the side of the bed. He’d left the kettle on the stove? It wasn’t like him in the least!
He was on his feet before his eyes were fully open. In fact, they wouldn’t open far a’tall! It took the shock of pain to remind him why a woman stood at his stove. No need to panic. He hadn’t left the kettle on. Nothing was amiss but his face. And Matty lass was fixing a meal, bless her.
He seemed to recall promising to feed her. “Forgive me, lass. I promised to address yer hunger.”
She sent a brief smile over her shoulder. “You’re up!” She slid a pan off the stovetop, then hurried to the door, donned her boots and coat, and reached for the latch.
“Ye’re in a hurry to leave, then?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I’m going to get the salt from the barn. I need it for the soup. Don’t shoot me, but I’ve used all the vegetables in the cabinet, and it’s still not much. If there is anything lse you have to throw in the pot…”
“Auch, aye. Plenty. The wind has stopped. I’ll put a log on and come w’ ye.”
She bit her lips and pointed at his chest.
He laughed and reached over the foot of the bed to snatch up his thick knitted jumper, which he pulled over his head. “My friend’s wife made it for me. Fine, isn’t it?” He smelled something far less sweet than the soup on the boil and ducked his nose to sniff the jumper. Looking back, he remembered only washing it once or twice since she’d given it to him—two years before.
