Page 19 of The Shape of Night

“Arthur wants us to open it up, paint the walls to match the rest of the turret,” says Ned. “And we’ll need to sand and varnish the floor, so that’ll take us another week or two. We’ve been working on this house for months, and I’m starting to think we’ll never get finished.”

“Crazy old house,” says Billy and he picks up a sledgehammer. “I wonder what else it’s hiding.”

—

Billy and Ned sit at my kitchen table, both wearing grins as I set down two steaming bowls, fragrant with the scent of beef and bay leaves.

“Smelled this cooking all morning,” says Billy, whose bottomless appetite never fails to amaze me. Eagerly he picks up a spoon. “We wondered what you were whipping up down here.”

“Lobscouse,” I answer.

“Looks like beef stew to me.” He shovels a spoonful into his mouth and sighs, his eyes closed in utter contentment. “Whatever it is, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“It’s known as sailor’s beef stew,” I explain as both men tuck into their lunch. “The recipe originated with the Vikings, but they used fish. As the recipe traveled with sailors around the world, the fish was replaced with beef instead.”

“Yay, beef,” Billy mumbles.

“And beer,” I add. “There’s lots and lots of beer in this dish.”

Billy raises a fist. “Yay, beer!”

“Come on, Billy, you can’t just inhale it. You have to tell me what youthinkabout it.”

“I’d eat it again.” Of course he would. When it comes to food, Billy is the least discriminating person I have ever met. He’d eat roasted shoe leather if I placed it in front of him.

But Ned takes his time as he spoons chunks of potato and beef into his mouth and he thinks as he chews. “I’m guessing this is a lot tastier than what those old-time sailors ate,” he concludes. “This definitely needs to go in the book, Ava.”

“I think so, too. I’m glad to have the Ned Haskell seal of approval.”

“What’re you cooking for us next week?” Billy asks.

Ned gives him a punch on the shoulder. “She’s not cooking forus.This is research for her book.”

A book for which I’ve already compiled dozens of worthy recipes, from a generations-old French Canadian recipe for tourtière pork pie, luscious and dripping with silky fat, to a saddle of venison with juniper berries, to an endless array of dishes involving salt cod. Now I can test them all on real Mainers, men with appetites.

Billy gobbles down his stew first and heads back upstairs to work, but Ned lingers at the table, savoring the final spoonfuls.

“Gonna be real sorry to finish up in your turret,” he says.

“And I’ll be sorry to lose my taste testers.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no end of eager volunteers, Ava.”

My cellphone rings and I see the name of my editor pop up on the screen. I have been avoiding his calls but there’s no way to put him off forever. If I don’t pick up now, he’ll just keep calling.

“Hello, Simon,” I answer.

“So you haven’t been eaten by a bear after all.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t called back. I’ll send you a few more chapters tomorrow.”

“Scott thinks we should drive up there and drag you home.”

“I don’t want to be dragged home. I want to keep writing. I just needed to get away.”

“Get away from what?”

I pause, not knowing what to say. I glance at Ned, who discreetly rises from the table and carries his empty bowl to the sink.

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