Sunburst

“I never thought a table could actually look pompous…”

Martha laughed again. “But then, you’ve never met my aunt. And I got a letter from her this morning saying she’d be here in ten days from England-”

“So you’ve got ten days to get the table back in shape?” Erica viewed the piece with a critical eye. Finally, she shook her head. “I’d love to help you, honestly. But the antiques I’ve been working on have all been American, nothing this old or valuable. Kyle would know what to do, but he’s so tied up-”

“Honey. I know what to do; it’s this broken arm that won’t let me do it. I can see you’re not dressed for messy work at the moment, but…”

No, she wasn’t; however, Martha’s eyes were bright with pleading. Just seeing her gave Erica enormous pleasure. How long had it been since she’d chatted with another woman?

“We might not even have to refinish it,” Martha coaxed. “Have you got a smoker around the house?”

“Smoker?” Erica asked blankly. “No…”

“Well, we need ashes.”

Within an hour, Erica had found laughter she had never expected to find that morning. Ashes and lemon juice were what Martha had in mind for removing the water spots, spurning all the scientific preparations stored in Kyle’s shop. While Erica changed her clothes, Martha made coffee for both of them. Then they discussed the ashes…and along the way, hair styles, clothes, living on a farm, cooking and animals. Martha had a lively sense of humor, and by the time they headed back outside they were chattering like friends of long standing.

They shelved the lemon and ash mixture temporarily in favor of another old-fashioned preparation for removing water stains: vinegar and cold water. Erica sat in the bed of the truck, wearing a halter top and shorts, working there because the table was too heavy for them to lift down. Occasionally, she glanced up to the sound of hammering and sawing where the new building was going up. Lurch was lying in the middle of the fray, being stepped over frequently, completely oblivious.

“He’s unbudgeable,” Martha said ruefully. “I should have left him home. And I never meant to take up your whole morning-”

“No problem,” Erica assured her. She added absently, “The vinegar’s good, but not good enough.”

“I’ve heard a little alcohol on a fingertip rubbed really hard-”

Finally, they gathered paper and a small stack of twigs and crouched over them in the driveway, Erica waving her hands furiously to get the fire going. “This is ridiculous,” she said idly.

Martha agreed.

“No one would go to this much trouble to get a few tablespoons of ashes. Anyone who saw us would be looking for straitjackets on sale.”

Martha agreed.

The ashes were cooled and collected. Martha’s broken arm in no way inhibited her ability to make trip after trip to the kitchen. She fetched more vinegar and water to remove the old furniture polish; then iodine to hide the tiny scratches; then lemon juice to blend with the ashes for removing the water spots. The mixture worked, although Martha had an alternative potion in mind-toothpaste mixed with baking soda.

Erica laughed harder each time Martha brought back something else from the house. “Where did you ever hear of all these home remedies?”

“Oh, in any old farming family this kind of lore is handed down from generation to generation. Needs must, as they say. A long time ago, the woman of the house didn’t have a store to pop to every time she needed something. I just wish I could do the work myself; I’ve ended up taking your whole morning. If it were only my left arm that was out of commission-”

“What on earth is going on?”

Morgan had crept up behind Erica and pressed a kiss on the nape of her neck. The two women had been so immersed in the project that neither of them had heard him approach. Morgan’s hand lingered on Erica’s shoulder as he surveyed the table-and the half of her kitchen that seemed to be on the truck bed, from bowls to spoons to the crazy mix of household supplies.

“This is Morgan Shane, Martha,” Erica said. “Martha Calhoun-she’s a neighbor of ours, Morgan.”

“I take it that’s your dog in the middle of the sawdust,” Morgan guessed dryly. There was charm in his smile for Martha, but his eyes rested on Erica, an intent look at her clinging halter top and the long stretch of midriff below it. “I’ve got to get back to it. Just wanted to tell you I’d be going into town for lunch…and I wanted to see how you were faring this morning.” One finger tapped her cheek, and Erica felt a spark of warmth because Morgan had checked on her, a reminder that he had braved an argument out of worry over her the night before.

Then he was gone, with a wave and a goodbye for Martha, who stared after him with wide-eyed interest. “I’ll have to ask Leonard,” she said gravely, “but that hunk can put his slippers under my bed anytime.”

Erica burst out laughing. She had already formed a very definite impression of Leonard and the kind of life the Calhouns had together. Their dairy herd consisted of sixty cows, just short of good size, according to Martha. They were up at three every morning to be ready to milk at five, and the second milking didn’t end until eleven at night. That left only a few hours’ sleep every night, so a nap was essential every day for both of them. It was the kind of life that took closeness between couples for granted. Without it they couldn’t have survived.

The Calhouns had a teenage son whom Martha dismally labeled immature, and whose sole interest in life, it seemed, was playing drums. Their seven-year-old daughter already needed braces and apparently lived in trees. Martha spent her time alternately worrying that the girl was going to kill herself climbing, or that one or all of them would go deaf from the constant drum practice. Erica pictured Leonard as stocky and steady, probably no better- looking than Martha but just as good-humored. He had to be, in a house where shaving cream was mixed with food coloring to make finger paints, and toothpaste was used to clean pewter. That Martha was happily married was as obvious as her clear, bright eyes and her smile that never took a rest.

“We aren’t going to have to strip the finish off this, you know,” she said with satisfaction. “We’ll just use a good, strong cover-up polish…”

The table was nearly done, the water spots barely perceptible, the scratches hidden. Kyle, a perfectionist, would never have allowed it to leave his shop without refinishing it, but Martha claimed it looked a lot better now than it did when she first got it, which was more than the monstrosity deserved.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a recipe for polish, too,” Erica pleaded teasingly.

“A third of a cup each of boiled linseed oil, turpentine and vinegar. Preferably cider vinegar. For the curves, you use a soft old toothbrush and brush it on real lightly.” She waved Erica back as she started to leap down from the truck. “Hold on! I’ll get it. I told you, it’s the least I can do after you’ve dropped everything to take care of me.”

“I’ve enjoyed it,” Erica admitted truthfully, but in the back of her mind was her gratitude for these few hours of no heartache.

“You’re coming for dinner tonight,” Martha insisted. “The only thing I can do with my left hand is cook. Don’t bother saying no. Leonard will never believe I’ve found someone who likes Lurch!” She was back in ten minutes, her makeshift polish in a well-shaken jar. “Kyle must have changed since he was a boy,” she said absently.

“Pardon?” Erica whirled so quickly that she almost upset the jar. Martha’s words had penetrated the numbness she’d shrouded herself in all morning.

“Your husband,” Martha said wryly. “Now, mine wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if any man as good-looking as that brown-eyed blond kissed me, he’d have been in traction before he got out the door.”

“Morgan?” Erica said incredulously, and chuckled. “Martha, that’s just his way. He’s been Kyle’s friend for years.”

“That’s funny. I could see right off we were going to be friends, and I haven’t had urge one to kiss you,” Martha pointed out blandly.

Erica shook her head with a grin. “Morgan’s just like that,” she repeated, and then hesitated, polishing the wood with long, careful strokes. “Kyle and I hit a little rough spot,” she confided after moment’s thought. “Morgan was the first one to offer help. There really aren’t many friends like him.” Martha was silent, and Erica glanced at her. “Really!” she insisted. “He really is!”

“Evidently, he is-to you,” Martha agreed smoothly. “As I said, Kyle must have changed.”

Martha had ten years on Kyle. At eighteen, she had been Martha O’Flaherty when Joel McCrery was an occasional visitor to the O’Flaherty household, and she’d served on occasion as Kyle’s babysitter.

“Oh, I regretted it,” Martha said ruefully. “Kyle accepted no one’s rule, denied that he ever needed anyone to