Page 54 of Brian and Cora
Brian remained at the partially-open window, grateful to stretch his legs after sitting for so long. The autumn air held a crisp edge that warned of winter's approach. But the sunshine made it pleasant enough outside.
He observed as the two settled into what had become their routine—Torin and Cora in the two rocking chairs and Jewel on the beach playing with Sassy Girl, squeals and yippy barks accompanying their antics.
Cora had taught Jewel and Sassy Girl a new game that involved Jewel throwing a stick into the shallow water and watching the puppy splash after it, then gambol in circles around her, before bringing it back for more throws. Both child and dog ended up tired, soaking wet, and delighted with themselves. They weren’t allowed to play the game for long, before both were bundled into towels and then, for Jewel, dry clothing.
"I've been trying to teach her letters," Torin said abruptly to Cora, his gaze never leaving his daughter. "Dr. Angus gave me a primer months ago. But I'm not having much success. She knows 'A' for Apple and 'F' for flower, but that's about all."
"That's a wonderful start," Cora said encouragingly. "Allow Jewel to learn at her own pace."
"Will she, though?" Torin's voice held a wealth of worry. "Or am I fooling myself?"
"You're not fooling yourself," Cora said firmly. "What Jewel has going for her is her own determination. She just needs the right approach—a way to catch her attention so she’s motivated to learn."
Brian listened to the exchange, noting how Cora's matter-of-fact confidence eased the tension in Torin's shoulders. She had a gift for that—making the impossible seem merely challenging. She has a gift for a lot of things, including softening up a curmudgeonly bachelor.
“I have a friend in New York who loves teaching children. I’ll write to her for advice.”
Torin remained silent, perhaps thinking. “Guess it can’t hurt.”
An hour later, after Torin and a protesting Jewel left, Cora carried a towel-wrapped puppy inside. “This one’s soon going to be too heavy for me.” She set down the dog and vigorously rubbed her as dry as possible, before holding her nose to nose and looking into her eyes. “No rolling over on the rug. No rubbing against your Papa’s pants. Hear?”
Once released, Sassy Girl promptly skittered to the rug and rolled on her back.
Brian chuckled.
Cora stood, arms akimbo, and mock glared at the dog. “You listen just as well as your papa.”
“I’d say she listens better,” he drawled.
“Humph.”
He could tell by the way the corners of her mouth curved that she wasn’t really perturbed.
“You going to write to Ivy?” he asked, having heard snippets about their friendship throughout the week.
"Ivy tutors several young children and might have ideas for helping Jewel."
Brian held in a smile. Cora couldn't see a problem without trying to fix it. The trait should have annoyed him. Well, in the beginning, she did annoy him. But she possessed the ability to back off, which he appreciated, and he found himself oddly touched by her determination to help his friends.
He looked down at the crumpled paper. "I'm moving to my desk," he announced. "I need proper writing space if I'm going to figure out this blasted plot." He unfurled the paper to show her the blot. “I can’t risk ruining your lap desk.”
"Brian, no. Your leg?—"
"My leg is fine."
"Sitting sideways will strain?—"
Did I not just think to myself she knows how to back off? Apparently, I was mistaken. "I know my own limits." He didn't mean to snap, but frustration at his tangled feelings for her, at his ongoing inability to craft a story made him sound shorter than intended.
Her lips compressed into a thin line. "Fine. Don't blame me when you're in agony later." She gathered up her writing materials and her book. "I'll be outside where I can't witness your foolishness." She stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.
Half feeling guilty, half irked, Brian maneuvered himself to his desk, a process that took longer than he'd care to admit. The familiar space should have been comforting. But sitting with his leg awkwardly extended to the side sent twinges up his hip. He wished for the footstool but wouldn’t be able to fit it and his legs under the desk. He shifted, trying to find a bearable position.
After opening the top drawer, he removed some sheets of paper and set them on the surface. At some point, he’d ruined his desk blotter by spilling a bowl of hot soup over it and had never bought a new one.
Consequently, the wood surface was riddled with dark blotches. Someone had attempted, with little success, to rid the desk of the various blots. He could tell because the black wasn’t as vivid.
He was rather glad the woman valiantly scrubbing away hadn’t succeeded. He’d spent a lot of time staring at those small patches of ink, his thoughts in search of a word, or concept, or to remember what color eyes he’d given a minor character in the front of the book. And in trying to come up with a new story.
