Indelible Laurie Buchanan (sad books to read TXT) 📖

she uses the counter-like ledge on the closed half of the Dutch door to pull herself to a standing position where she is licked from chin to forehead for her effort.

Rubbing his whiskered face with her forehead, Emma turns to see a slack-jawed audience and declares, “I’m famished!” Seeing the shocked expressions on their faces, she grins and adds, “I’ve been practicing.” Then she gracefully sits back down.

Cynthia’s enthusiastic clapping is enhanced by everyone else’s.

Not wanting to be left out, Hemingway joins their excitement, his ears shooting up in the air with each bark-laced jump.

Through hearty congratulations, peppered with questions, Emma explains. “Though I can probably bench press a Buick, I don’t want the muscles in my legs to atrophy, so I work every day to strengthen them. And one day I’m going to move from this wheelchair to a walker. From a walker to trekking poles. And then on to hands-free walking,” she finishes with a confident smile.

“This calls for a celebration,” Niall declares. “I’ve paired our meal this evening with a red Italian wine. Who wants to try it?”

“Me,” comes the chorused answer.

For the appetizer, Niall places a beautiful platter of caramelized fennel and goat cheese on the table. “Please help yourselves. Dinner will be ready soon. In anticipation of a storm, I prepared a variety of comfort foods. We’re having grilled shark steaks marinated in a sage butter sauce, candied sweet potatoes with a pistachio crust, slow-cooked green beans, and cornbread topped with whipped honey butter.”

“I’m in food heaven!” Emma exclaims.

“By the way, where’s Mr. Hughes?” Cynthia asks, one eyebrow piqued.

“I’m not sure. We saw him earlier today. He must be running late,” Libby says.

Worry strikes the pit of Cynthia’s stomach. Her eyebrows draw together in private thought as she watches the red wine Niall is pouring purl against the glass inside her long-stemmed goblet.

Apart from the great horned owl perched on a high limb in one of the western red cedar trees surrounding Thoreau cottage, no one else is aware that Jason has company.

The owl watches the woman with short, dark curly hair step with care between tree trunks, stopping periodically to look around. After pressing his needle-sharp talons into the tree’s flesh, he rotates his head on his flexible neck to get a better look with his large yellow eyes.

The owl isn’t the only one schooled in the predator-prey dynamic. The man inside the cottage is well versed.

The Lhaq’temish, the local Indian tribe who live on the Lummi reservation, believe that owls think like humans—only far better.

The owl wonders if the woman tapping softly on the cottage door is predator or prey.

“That was a hell of a long hike,” the woman says to Jason after stepping inside. “I need to pee.”

Before leaving the bathroom, she checks the gun in her purse to make sure the safety is off. I know him well enough to be armed and ready. After placing the strap over her shoulder and adjusting the bag for easy access, she smiles at herself in the mirror then shuts off the light.

Stepping into the living room, she asks, “What’s the plan?”

“All in good time,” Jason says, raising his glass of Jack Daniels to her and nodding. “All in good time.”

On the heels of a distant boom, Mick says, “It sounds like we’ll need to batten down the hatches tonight.” Raising his glass to Niall, he continues, “Here’s to storms and comfort food.”

After toasting their chef, Emma says, “I’m glad it held off until now. I enjoyed writing on the patio this morning.” Then turning to Mick, she says, “And our picnic this afternoon.”

“Me, too,” Fran chimes in. “After tai chi this morning, I wrote, and then went clothes shopping in town.”

Lifting her glass in acknowledgement, Cynthia smiles. “Me three. It was fun helping you shop. Thank you for inviting me along.”

Turning to Fran, Emma says, “I love your outfit, it’s beautiful. And your pendant is lovely. Did you buy everything in town today?”

While running her fingertips over the intricate carving on her pendant, a pleased blush blooms on Fran’s face as she answers. “Yes, and more.”

All eyes turn expectantly to Mick who’d remained quiet.

“What?” he asks the room at large. When no one responds, he says, “I see you found Hyde and Seek.”

“The real question is, did you get any writing done today?” Libby asks, eyes dancing in wicked merriment over the rim of her wine glass at Mick’s obvious discomfort.

“Earlier I saw laundry flapping on the clothesline. Did you have a chance to bring it in, or should I run out and grab it now?” Mick asks.

“I gathered it a while ago, but thank you for asking,” Libby says.

Mick slides his gaze toward Niall. Help me out here, buddy! his dark green eyes plead.

“I read somewhere that writing is like painting images with words,” Niall interjects in a rescue attempt.

Taking his cue, Fran responds, “I agree. I think that’s why writing attracts me. I enjoy the mystery of it, the way words fit together on a page to paint an image.”

“Words are important to everyone,” Emma adds, picking up the verbal baton. “Left unsaid, they leave holes.”

Cynthia adds, “I read a quote today by E. L. Doctorow. ‘Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader, not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.’”

And the topic of writing is off and running, taking on an animated life of its own. Strains of Norah Jones singing “Come Away with Me” float to the table as dinner is enjoyed, and what Mick did or didn’t write today was forgotten.

The sky is ominous, dark with rumbling thunder, as they adjourn to The Ink Well for dessert, a wild blackberry custard tart topped with Niall’s homemade whipped cream.

“Libby, with his delicious cooking,” Cynthia says, nodding toward Niall, “why aren’t you the size of a house?”

“Because I know there’s more where that came from,” Libby answers with a laugh. “And that knowledge allows me to enjoy