Page 2 of Brian and Cora
In the past, his friends sometimes helped Brian plot a story. But since he hadn’t come up with a shred of a viable idea in weeks, he’d shut them out from any discussion of his writing. The two knew of Brian’s dry spell but had learned not to comment.
“We came to borrow your canoe. Who knows how much longer before the weather’s too cold to go out on the lake?”
“Fine with me.” On the surface of the tiny round table he used for eating, Brian moved a food-crusted plate and empty enamel mug to the seat of a chair to make room on the tabletop for the jar of flowers.
Jewel wandered over and picked up the mug with both hands. “Wash dis, Bry-in?” She gazed up in bright-eyed appeal.
The girl loved to busy herself with washing and drying dishes. From a young age, she’d ‘helped’ her father with the chore and now had proudly taken on the task by herself.
He briefly touched the tip of her nose with a gentle finger. “Only you would look excited about washing a pile of my dishes.”
“Pease?”
With fresh eyes, Brian glanced around the small cabin, taking in the mess accumulated over these past frustrating weeks. He didn’t have that many dishes, pots, and pans, but what he possessed overflowed the dry sink and tabletop, and the rest sat on the floor near his desk. The rumpled linen on the bed in the corner hadn’t been made or washed for who knew how long. Books were scattered around, instead of neatly stacked within the bookcase. Empty cans, the tops still partially attached, lined a shelf in the kitchen area. Dirty clothing lay crumpled on the plank floors. The windows overlooking the lake appeared dusty and fly-specked, and, as he took a breath, Brian became aware of a stale smell that even the cracked-open window couldn’t banish.
Shame balled his stomach into a knot. How could I not have noticed my surroundings? He was used to times of focusing only on his writing and ignoring everything else. But I’m not currently in the creative flow or on a deadline. And if I can’t come up with a plot, I might never be issued a deadline again. And there goes my source of income. He thrust aside the unbearable thought. Without his writing, life would be bleak, indeed.
Torin stood in the doorway. “You’re in desperate need of a wife.” He fisted his hands on his hips, mock frowned, and looked haughtily down his nose. “Although, I don’t know if you could find one who’d put up with you. Maybe we should send away for a mail-order bride, and state in the letter,” he ticked off a list on his fingers, “One. Must be an expert housekeeper. Two. Willing to put up with a curmudgeon for a husband. Three. Must remain quiet for weeks when grumpy husband is in the throes of writing a book. Four. A good cook, even when the grouch she’s marriedhas his mind so on his story that he doesn’t notice what he’s eating.”
Brian scowled and made a slashing motion to stop Torin’s babble before the man added more pointed truths. “Enough, already.” His friend was just teasing, but his comments cut too close to the bone.
Ignoring Torin, he turned to Jewel, who was patiently awaiting an answer. “You sure, Sugar? That’s a mighty big pile of dishes. Don’t you want to go out in the canoe?”
Sticking out the tip of her tongue, she nodded emphatically and patted a plate.
With a lifted eyebrow, he glanced at Torin. “This will make her happy?”
“Extremely,” Torin said wryly.
“Well, then.” Brian swept Jewel a bow. “Your wish, Sugar Princess, is my command.”
The girl giggled, walked with the mug to the dry sink, and set it down among the others.
From experience, Brian knew she’d take five times longer to wash and dry dishes as he would. Also from experience, he knew better than to offer to help. Lately, the girl had developed an independent streak.
In his small two-burner stove, he stirred the banked fire and added some kindling, followed by some larger pieces of wood. He checked the kettle to make sure it still contained water, while Torin collected the pitcher and went outside to the well.
Picking up the tin pail he used for rinsing, Brian moved it to the tabletop. The water-stained and heat-scarred wooden surface showed the effects of his method: fill the basin in the dry sink with soapy water to wash each individual dish, turn to the table to dunk it in the pail of hot water, and, when rinsed, set it on the table to air dry.
The kettle hissed. He moved to grab the ragged towel scorched with stains from a hook near the stove and picked up the handle, carrying the water to the dry sink. “Stand back, Sugar.” He poured some into the basin, careful not to splash Jewel.
Torin returned with the pitcher, tipping some of the cold well water into the basin and testing the temperature with a finger before pouring the rest into the kettle Brian held out. Then he left to get more.
Jewel picked up the sea sponge and soap, dunked them into the water, placed in a mug, and started to scrub and hum.
With a smile, Brian let her be, carrying the kettle to the stove.
Back from his second round, Torin glanced around for a place to put the pitcher, but apparently he saw no open surface, and he set it at his feet.
Jewel turned to deposit the mug in the pail, and then fished it out again, holding it aloft by the handle and dripping on the table. “Towl, pease.”
Hoping he had a clean one, he opened the drawer in the kitchen cabinet and, to his relief, saw one left. And by Jove, it’s even folded. He waved the towel in triumph and stretched to hand it to Jewel.
While Jewel worked, Torin crossed his arms over his chest and propped a shoulder against the wall near the window, keeping a close eye on his daughter. He flicked an ironic glance at Brian and then made a circling gesture to indicate the shambolic room. “Pry yourself away from your desk, old man. Get outside of these four walls.”
Brian wanted to fire up in his own defense, but he was too drained to muster much of an argument. “I helped the Smithsons and Baileys bring in their harvests.”
“I think you could do better than temporarily hiring on as an unpaid farm hand,” Torin said in a dry tone. He did a backwardthumb jab toward the window. “Get out there and live. Let real life be your muse.” His smirk was a challenge. “Start by going to the Harvest Festival.”
