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  Anyway, they stood chatting about nothing in particular until Fan’s truck stopped outside with a squeal and a loud honking. After a hurried goodbye, Holly grabbed her books and ran.

  Fan leaned over to open the door for her. “Did you get what you wanted?”

  “Yes, and I met a friend of yours.”

  “Didn’t know I had one.” Fan didn’t ask who it was. The truck, always temperamental, had picked this time to stall.

  “His name is Cawne,” Holly persisted. “He says he’s a neighbor.”

  “Geoffrey Cawne?” Fan quit fiddling with the ignition long enough to stare at her. “You mean he actually came up and spoke to you?”

  “He let me use his library card.”

  “I’ll be darned! You may not know it, but you’ve been honored. Cawne’s our local celebrity. He’s a famous writer.”

  “I’m not surprised. He looks the type. What does he write?”

  Fan shrugged. “I don’t know, but he’s well-known in his field.”

  Holly didn’t ask what his field was. If Fan had known, she’d have said. It couldn’t have anything to do with antique furniture or Fan would have been cultivating his acquaintance like mad on the chance he might be able to do Roger some good.

  There was still a chance he might be able to do Holly some good, though. “He told me he was sorry not to see more of you and Roger,” she remarked.

  “Did he really?” Fan started to put on the Westchester manner she hadn’t used for so long, then gave it up with a sigh. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask him over. He’d be somebody for you to know. Though what good it would do—still, if he lent you his library card—”

  “Oh, that was just because the librarian was being stuffy and he heard me tell her I was Roger Howe’s sister. What is he: divorced, a widower, or just not interested?”

  “A widower, I think. They were saying something once at the Women’s Circle about his wife dying young of cancer, but it might have been hearsay. Blast this starter!”

  Fan climbed out and lifted the hood. Holly stayed in the cab, opened one of her books, and pretended to read with one eye on the library door. She was glad she’d chosen a biography. It looked intellectual. Ah, here he came, with a book under his arm and both hands in his pockets. Did he look pleased at seeing the truck still there, or was he only amused by the sight of Fan’s fuzzy brown behind sticking out from under the hood? Anyway, he wasn’t going to pass on without speaking again.

  “Having problems, Mrs. Howe? What a bore. Anything I can do?”

  “Yes.” Fan backed out and stood up to face him. “Find me a halfway reliable second-hand truck, dirt cheap. This heap’s about had it. How are you, Professor? Holly was just telling me how you bailed her out with your library card.”

  “Marie’s a stickler for the rules, I’m afraid. What seems to be the problem?”

  “Oh, the wiring’s all shot. I don’t know whether I’ve made it better or worse. Try the starter again, Holly.”

  “Where’s the key?”

  “In my pocket, most likely. Force of habit.” Fan wiped her greasy hands on a tattered tissue and fished out the ignition key.

  “Here, let me.” Cawne took the key from her and slid behind the wheel. To nobody’s surprise, the engine purred obediently at his first try.

  “There you are, ladies. Not at all. My pleasure.”

  He smiled away their thanks and gave Fan a gallant boost into the driver’s seat. “I do hope I’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again while you’re here, Miss Howe.”

  “Come to dinner tonight,” Fan said to her own evident surprise. “Don’t ask me what you’ll get to eat, but we’ll manage something.”

  “I’m sure it will be delightful.” Cawne looked as if he meant it. “What time would you want me?”

  “Could you make at quarter to seven? We keep early hours now that we’re country folks.”

  “A quarter to seven is exotically late for Jugtown. My housekeeper will be impressed. See you then.”

  He waved and turned off toward the shops. Fan put the truck in gear, looking a trifle blank.

  “Whatever possessed me to do that? I was planning to go back and get the rest of that paneling. Now we’ll have to stay and clean house.”

  “You go for the boards and I’ll do the cleaning,” Holly offered, glad of the excuse to dodge another vandalizing expedition. “It’ll be good training for my new career.”

  “You sure do have rotten luck,” Fan sympathized in her own fashion. “Just when an interesting man shows up, you go and stick yourself out at Cliff House, where they don’t allow visitors.”

  “Thanks, Fan. You really know how to cheer a person up. What shall I cook for dinner?”

  They talked housekeeping the rest of the way back, except for a minor squabble when they passed Cawne’s driveway. Holly wanted to turn in for a closer look at the house. Fan was anxious to fix Roger’s lunch and hustle herself back to the walnut mine. Fan won.

  Chapter 4

  “ROGER MUST HAVE A customer!”

  Fan got a momentary charge out of seeing an almost-new station wagon parked in the yard. To her chagrin, the visitor turned out not to be a wealthy Yank making a pilgrimage to the master’s workshop but Bert’s nephew looking for a job.

  “That’s an expensive car,” she fussed. “This Sam must charge a mint for his work. I hope Roger doesn’t commit himself to paying so much for the carving that we wind up making zilch out of the furniture. Maybe I’d better go in there.”

  “Hadn’t we better put the groceries away instead?” Holly thought that was more tactful than saying, “Why don’t you mind your own business and let Roger mind his?”

  Fan brushed her off. “You said you’d do the housework.”

  So much for tact. Holly picked up two of the grocery bags and lugged them into the house. If Fan chose to barge into the workshop and throw her weight around, that was between her and Roger. What a relief it would be not having to be caught up in this situation twenty-four hours a day.

  Claudine needn’t have bothered warning her that Cliff House was run down. It couldn’t be worse than Howe Hill. The house had never been modernized. Perishables still had to be lugged down to the cellar because there wasn’t any fridge. Canned goods and other staples had to be stacked on the pantry shelves because Roger hadn’t got around to building cabinets. Oil lamps had to be cleaned and filled, cooking done either on the cranky wood-burning range or else on a frightening little two-burner gasoline camp stove. Holly was trying to get up nerve enough to light it when Fan burst through the back door.

  “Holly, he’s asked him to lunch! Now what are we going to do?”

  “Open another can of soup, that’s all. Nobody expects a banquet at lunchtime.”

  “Jugtowners do. It’s breakfast, dinner, and supper up here.”

  “Then I’ll fry some eggs and make hashed browns out of those potatoes left from last night. Light the stove for me, then go fix your face. If they come in before we’re ready, I’ll offer them whiskey and cheese.”

  “Roger oughtn’t to drink in the daytime. Working with sharp tools—”

  “He’s a big boy now, Fan. Get cracking, will you?”

  Roger this and Roger that. Roger wouldn’t take enough whiskey to addle his handsome head and make him cut his little pinkie finger. Too bad Fan hadn’t had six or eight kids so she could have spread her maternal urges thin enough to be tolerable. The way she coddled that human haddock was positively scary. Holly slammed a frying pan on the stove, scooped a dollop of marge into the bottom, and started slicing cold boiled potatoes. Whatever had possessed her brother to make such an uncharacteristically spontaneous gesture? This wood-carver must be something special.

  Sam Neill didn’t look special, nor did he act as if he thought he was. He acknowledged the introduction to Holly pleasantly enough, then seemed quite content to sit down beside the kitchen stove and accept the jelly tumbler of weak whiskey and water with no ice that Holly
handed him straight from the sink. He and Roger gnawed absently at hunks of the flavorsome local cheddar she gave them, talking about furniture. Neither of them paid any attention to Holly except to edge out of her way when she had to set the table. No sense in bothering to serve in the dining room. They wouldn’t notice.

  The men were still talking furniture when they sat down to eat. They talked through the soup, the salad, the eggs and hashed browns, the canned peaches and cookies, the numerous cups of strong tea. Once Neill asked Holly to pass the milk jug. Once he said, “This is very good, Mrs. Howe.” Had they been two Chippendale chairs, the two women might have gotten more attention.

  Holly didn’t mind, she enjoyed listening to them. For the first time since she could remember, she was seeing Roger as a real person, somebody she could be proud of, winning respect from this man who also had the hands, the eyes and the dedication of a master craftsman.

  Fan, on the other hand, could take no pleasure in a conversation that left her no chance to talk. She fidgeted, attempted several times to break in, and finally did manage to blurt out, “How much do you expect to get paid, Mr. Neill?”

  Holly could tell Neill was shocked and Roger embarrassed, though both of them tried to put a decent face on the matter that should have been handled quietly and offhandedly out in the workshop. Instead Neill was forced to mumble, “Whatever Roger thinks I’m worth,” and quickly ask Holly how long she expected to be in Jugtown.

  “I don’t know yet,” she replied. “It depends on how soon I get fired from my new job.”

  “What job is that?” He was studying her carved-up face with what might have been professional interest.

  “I’m a lion tamer. Don’t I look it?”

  She was sorry as soon as she’d given him the flip reply. Neill was only trying to be polite. “Actually, I’ve been a photographers’ fashion model. There was an accident in the studio when a light broke, and I was injured, as you’ve no doubt gathered. I’m up here trying to heal. Your uncle mentioned there was an opening at Cliff House for a sort of junior assistant chore girl, so I took it. I may as well be doing something useful, since I’m none too ornamental right now.”

  “That’s about what I’m doing.” Neill set down his cup with finality. “Thanks for the dinner.”

  When he got up from the table, Holly saw he was taller than she’d realized, almost as tall as Roger and not yet beginning to thicken at the waist. Like so many Maritimers, he had the map of Scotland printed all over his craggy features. His hair and skin had a ruddy glow, his eyes were blue as the bluebonnets over the border, almost as blue as Holly’s own. His clothes were what any local workman would wear: a plaid flannel shirt, nondescript trousers, and ankle-high boots with thick soles. He was probably a nice enough chap in his way.

  She nodded farewell and began to clear the table. As Neill turned to leave, something about the shape of his back jogged her memory. Then she realized his shirt was the same overall blue color Claudine’s anonymous companion had been wearing yesterday.

  Fan had noticed, too. “I’ll bet you a nickel that’s the fellow we saw with Claudine Parlett yesterday,” she hissed, casting a wary eye in the direction of the workshop.

  Holly poured hot water from the teakettle onto the detergent in the dishpan and sneezed as the bubbles got up her nose. “Gee, that’s tough,” she said when she could talk.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Two single people taking an afternoon stroll together doesn’t make much of a story, does it?”

  “Huh! If that’s all they were up to, why couldn’t they stroll closer to home? Anyway, how do we know Neill’s single? He could have wives all over Canada.”

  Holly sneezed again. “What fun for him. Them, too, no doubt. Fan, if you intend to get that wood today, you’d better get hopping.”

  She didn’t honestly care whether Fan pulled off another successful raid or if Sam Neill had committed polygamy from sea to shining sea. She only wanted the house to herself. If Howe Hill was to be made even halfway presentable before Geoffrey Cawne arrived, there was no time to be wasted on gossip.

  Chapter 5

  GETTING HOWE HILL IN order for a party was an uphill fight. Holly swept and dusted, scrubbed and scoured. She conquered the logistics of turning humble fricasseed fowl into glamorous coq au vin, and even managed to bake an apple pie in Fan’s unpredictable Dutch oven.

  When the two front rooms were as clean as she could get them, Holly went out and picked an armload of the scraggly field asters that were all Howe Hill had to offer by way of flowers, except for the goldenrod she didn’t dare bring in because of Roger’s allergies. Eked out with branches of maple leaves that had begun to show their fall colors, the arrangements wouldn’t look too bad by lamplight.

  Maybe she wouldn’t, either. With the house and the dinner under reasonable control, Holly lugged hot water up to her bedroom, managed a sponge bath out of a chipped enamel basin, then went to work on her face, using every professional trick she’d ever learned. The result was only fair, so she put on the brightest dress she owned, to call attention away from the damaged areas.

  At least Fan was impressed. When she got home from her lumber raid and saw what Holly’d accomplished, she rushed to clean up and change into one of her long-unworn Westchester gowns. The two women went downstairs in grand style, just in time to greet Cawne, who arrived on the dot in great spirits.

  “This is an unexpected treat. Who’d have thought I’d be spending my evening with a charming New York hostess and a famous fashion model instead of moaning over a pile of so-called poems written by future oil-drillers and potato farmers? Would it be cheeky of me to compliment you on that ravishing—should I call it a creation, Miss Howe?”

  “Call it anything you like, and please call me Holly. How did you know I’d been a model?”

  “I recognized you from your photographs, of course. Surely you don’t think I confine my reading exclusively to the Canadian poets? Are you here on assignment?”

  “Hardly.” Holly’s hands went up to her cheeks. Was he trying to be kind, or making subtle fun of her? “I’m hiding out till I’m fit to be seen again, if ever,” she said bluntly.

  “I keep telling Holly the scars aren’t half so gruesome as she thinks they are.” Fan did have a knack for choosing her words.

  “Scars?” Cawne made a little business of adjusting his glasses and tilting his head to peer closer at Holly’s face. “Oh, yes, now I see. One just has to squint a bit. I do understand that in your profession even a minor blemish could seem like a catastrophe. Were you in an accident?”

  Either her camouflage job was better than she’d thought or the professor needed his glasses changed. In any case, his cool academic interest was a refreshing change. For the first time since it had happened, Holly found she didn’t mind talking about her injury.

  “It was one of those stupid freak things. A few of us were at the studio one evening. We’d had a long day’s shooting and we were all a bit punchy, I guess. Anyway, the photographers were trying different trick shots and I was posing for them, hoping to get some interesting shots for my portfolio. Somebody was holding two hand floodlamps close to me for a strong light-and-dark effect. Somebody else got the bright idea of sloshing water over me to pick up wet highlights. The cold water hit the hot lamps and”—she spread her hands—“I spent a month in Bellevue Hospital having slivers of glass picked out of me.”

  “Good God! I hope you’re suing those idiots for every cent they’ve got.”

  “I can’t do that. They’re friends of mine.”

  “I tell her, with friends like them she doesn’t need enemies,” said Fan. “Sit here, Professor. Roger, why don’t you get us some drinks?”

  “What will you have, Cawne?”

  This was pure swank or gross ignorance on Roger’s part. They had nothing in the house but the remains of the whiskey he and Neill had been drinking at lunchtime. Luckily Cawne opted for that. They all settled down around the f
ireplace that was the house’s one redeeming feature. Inevitably the talk turned to antique furniture.

  “I must say I envy you, Howe,” said their guest, although no sign of discontent showed on his face as he stretched out impeccably trousered legs to the blaze fed with scraps from the workshop. “You’re one of the few people I’ve met who’s had the courage to cut loose and do exactly what he wants. I haven’t the knowledge to evaluate your work myself, but I believe you’re gaining rather a reputation among those who do know. I understand you even use tools of the period.”

  “Exclusively,” said Roger. “I also use a foot-powered lathe dating from the eighteenth century.”

  Cawne sat up straight, his face aglow. “No! Do you really? I don’t suppose you’d allow me to take some photographs of you in your workshop? Er—they’d be for publication, if you’d consent to that.”

  “Where would they be published?”

  The professor smiled and shrugged in Holly’s direction. “Nowhere so glamorous as in the fashion magazines, I’m afraid. It would be for a semi-historical work on the preservation of the early arts.”

  “I hardly qualify as an artist. I am a cabinetmaker. An artisan, if you like.”

  “Don’t be modest, Roger,” said his wife impatiently. “You’re a real artist. Mrs. Brown said so in her last letter. Mrs. Brown’s a famous interior decorator who buys a lot of Roger’s things,” she explained to Cawne.

  “Really?” Their guest looked dutifully impressed. “I hope I meet her sometime. Lecturing in many places as I do, one does run into almost everybody sooner or later. I must say an intimate family party like this makes a delightful change.”