“And now this Nick bastard plans to take it from ye.”
I pushed my bowl back and leaned forward to rest my chin on my stacked fists. “I don’t know if I want to fight for it. I’d suspect every customer, you know? I’d wonder if they’d pitched in to buy me off, or if they’d just been cheering for Nick. He gave me plenty of credit for my cooking, but he let people believe the recipes were his. So I shouldn’t be hurt that they wanted him to stick around. But still.” I straightened and shook my head slowly. “I just don’t want to live the rest of my life being paranoid.”
He cleared his throat and smiled, trying to get me out of my funk. “I am nae familiar with Vermont. Is it south of London?”
“What? No.” I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I swallowed my laugh. “It’s a state in the US. In the Northeast.” I explained that it was a ski town and whyThe Last Chair on Bridgewas a good name for a restaurant there. “Do they not have ski lifts in Scotland?”
“Auch, aye. I’ve seen one from afar. Clever things.” He rubbed his hand along the edge of the table, in the center, where Hannah’s name was carved. And I wondered if he was aware he’d done it.
I leaned back and looked at the same spot on my side of the table. The letters had nearly been worn smooth, but maybe not intentionally.
“I meant to ask you.” I tapped the table. “Who is Hannah?” I suddenly realized that she might be a dead wife, or worse, a current one, but the question was already out there.
He smiled, though sadly. “Hannah was m’ gran.”
“So, youarethe artist in the sketchbook.”
“Hardly an artist.”
“But Hannah #3 is definitely your grandmother.”
“Number three?”
“Number one is the Hannah in the bible. Another one in the dedication of that book of poetry, and… Wait. Those were probably the same one. So, if Hannah from the sketchpad is your grandmother, I guess she’s the same one as the Hannah in the table, right? Your grandma is Sketchbook and Table Hannah.”
He blinked at me for a minute, then sighed like he was seriously disappointed for some mysterious reason. “Find yer comfort, Matty lass. I am about to tell ye a story I have only ever told one other…”
“Why do I have the impression I’m not going to like it?”
“Auch, I can guarantee it. But ye’ll listen?”
“Yeah. I’ll listen.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cian had made the woman so nervous, she insisted there were things she needed to do before we settled in for his story.
“The dishes. I need to wash the dishes. And I want to wash your shirt. And the sweater. And if you’ll bring me that plaid cloth from the barn. And…we need to gather wood for the night. The basket is nearly?—”
“Guan, then. Wash the dishes and what clothes ye wish. Soap flakes are in the tin beside the plates there. I’ll fetch ye m’ plaid—‘tisnae a blanket, mind—and I’ll get the wood.” He set the last of the wood on the floor, grabbed the basket, and threw a bed blanket around his shoulders before turning back with a grin. “M’ dress is a mite too thin for outdoors, aye?”
He ducked into the stables to fetch the sled and his still-damp plaid and léine before taking them in the house. Then he took his time clearing a path to the privy and chopping more wood so as not to sweat overmuch. When the basket was bursting, he made a pile of fat logs to the right of the door and took the rest inside.
He found Matty standing in the midst of the room, wringing her hands. She’d hung his new shirt and jumper from the raftersabove the stove to dry. Must have stood on the chair to reach so high.
He set the heavy basket on the floor. “Somethin’ amiss?”
Her hand rose to point at the bed. “I found sheets in the trunk and made the bed.”
“Sheets?”
She pointed again, so he strode to the bedstead and lifted the blanket spread upon it. Beneath were two flowered cloths that had indeed been in the trunk. Effie gifted them to him regularly, through the years, and he’d cherished these last two.
“Sheets, ye say? I save those for when I run oot of rope. Make strips oot of them—” He noted the horror on her face and added, “Never ye mind.”
“So, I…I was making the bed and thinking about leaving tomorrow, and I realized that…we probably need to take turns. Maybe we can sleep in shifts, you know?—”
“Matty.”
