But it was the photo of Fiona that stopped him cold.
Her face smiled out, as did those of a dozen others, the ones who hadn’t escaped. Young, fresh, pretty.
It contrasted sharply with the file shot of her being hustled into the courthouse through the gauntlet of reporters. Her head down, her eyes dull, her face shattered.
The article added the details of her escape, her fiancé’s murder, and added briefly that Bristow could not be reached for comment.
“Didn’t stop you,” he murmured.
Still, people did what they did, he thought. Reporters reported. The smartest thing Fiona could do would be to ignore it.
The urge to call her irked him, actually brought an itch between his shoulder blades. He ordered himself to leave it—and her—alone.
Instead he called Gary and arranged for the stump removal. He gave Jaws ten minutes of fetch—they were both starting to get the hang of it—then went to work.
He focused on the breakfront. He thought it best not to do any further work on the cabinet, not until he could block the image of Fiona, that sick mix of fear and grief on her face, out of his head.
He took a short break in the early afternoon for a walk on the beach, where Jaws managed to find a dead fish.
After the necessary shower—he really had to remember to buy the damn dog a bathtub—Simon decided to load up some of his smaller items for Sylvia. He boxed cutting boards, weed pots, vases, bowls, then loaded them, along with the dog, into the truck.
He’d meet Gary, deal with the stump, and with the stock already loaded, have an excuse not to linger too long with Fiona.
It surprised him, and caused Jaws untold sorrow, when she wasn’t there. Nor were the dogs. Maybe she’d taken off for some solitude and distraction.
Jaws perked up when Gary arrived shortly with his chirpy border collie, Butch.
Gary, a cap over his grizzled hair, thick lenses over faded green eyes, watched the pups greet each other. “Coupla pips,” he said.
“At least. Fiona’s not home, but I told her I’d be by for the stump.”
“Got unit practice up in the park. They do a day of it once a month. Keep in tune, you know? Would’ve headed out at first light, most likely. Well, let’s get the Cat off the truck and go get you a stump. What the hell do you want it for?”
“You never know.”
“You sure don’t,” Gary agreed.
They lowered the ramp, and Gary backed the machine down. With the two dogs on board, they putted their way into the woods.
“I appreciate this, Gary.”
“Hell, it’s no big thing. Nice day to be out and about.”
It was, Simon thought. Warm enough, sunny, with little signs of encroaching spring showing themselves. The dogs panted in desperate joy, and Gary smelled—lightly—of fertilizer.
When they reached the stump, Gary hopped out, circled it, shoved his cap back to scratch his head. “This what you want?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we’ll get her. I knew a guy once made statues out of burl wood and a chain saw. This isn’t any stranger.”
They hauled out the chain, discussed strategies, baseball, dogs.
Simon tied the dogs to a tree to keep them out of harm’s way while Gary began maneuvering the machine.
It took an hour, and considerable sweat, re-angling, reversing, resetting the chain.
“Easy!” Simon called out, grinning widely. “You’ve got it now. She’s coming.”
“Cocksucker put up a fight.” Gary set the machine to idle when the stump rolled free. “You got yourself a stump.”
Simon ran his gloved hand over the body, along one of the thick roots. “Oh yeah.”
“Happiest I’ve seen you look since I met you. Let’s get her in the bucket.”
Once they were rolling out of the woods, the bucket full of stump, Gary glanced over. “I want you to let me know what you do with that thing.”
“I’m thinking a sink.”
Gary snorted. “You’re going to make a sink out of a stump?”
“The base of it, yeah. Maybe. If it cleans up like I think it will. I’ve got this round of burl wood could work as the basin. Add high-end contemporary fixtures, half a million coats of poly. Yeah, maybe.”
“That beats a chain saw and burl wood for strange. How much would something like that go for?”
“Depends, but if this works like I see it? I can sell it for about eight.”
“Eight hundred dollars for a stump sink?”
“Thousand.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Upscale Seattle gallery? Might get ten.”
“Ten thousand dollars for a sink. Fuck me sideways.”
Simon had to grin. “One of a kind. Some people think of it as art.”
“Some people have shit for brains. No offense.”
“Some people do—no offense taken. I’ll let you know when it’s finished, whatever it turns out to be. You can take a look for yourself.”
“I’m doing that. Wait until I tell Sue,” he said, speaking of his wife. “She won’t believe it.”
Nine
By the time he and Gary hauled the stump home and unloaded it, Simon considered skipping the trip to town and just staying put to play with his new toy. He’d already drafted half a dozen design possibilities in his head.
But the stock sat in his truck, packed and ready. If he didn’t go now, he’d have to go later, so he gave Jaws the thrill of another ride with the window half down, the dog’s snout pressed through the opening, and his ears flapping in the breeze.
“Why do you do that?” Simon wondered. When Jaws banged his tail against the seat in answer, Simon stuck his head out his own window. “Huh. Feels pretty good, actually. Next time you drive and I’ll catch the breeze.”
He tapped his fingers on the wheel in time with the radio while he refined and discarded more designs on the sketch pad in his head. The physical labor combined with the creative possibilities, the dog’s sheer and simple pleasure combined in a near perfect mix that had him grinning his way into the village. He’d finish his errand, go home, study his material, measure, then take a walk on the beach to let the ideas stew. Top it off with some design work over a beer, maybe a pizza, and it was a damn good day.
And that, he thought, was the answer to Fiona’s question.
Why Orcas?
Water drew him—kicky surf on beaches, wide river, busy creeks, quiet inlets. That yen had pulled him from Spokane to Seattle. That, he mused, and the city itself—its style, its openness to art. The nightlife, the movement, he supposed, had appealed at that stage of his life.
As Nina had, for a while.
He’d had good years there. Interesting, creative, successful years. But...
Too many people, too much movement and not enough space.
He liked the idea of an island. Self-contained, just a little apart and surrounded by water. Those wicked, twisting roads offered countless views of blue and green and the pretty boats that plied it, the green-knuckled clumps of rough land that seemed to float on it.
