Page 83 of The Edge

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly rolling in cash. Yeah, I’ve sold some artwork here and there, but I don’t get Picasso-level money in return.”

“I thought that Dak does well financially.”

“I’m not Dak. But if he weren’t paying the taxes on this property we would have already lost it.”

“So you’re saying you might not have a choice in the matter?”

“If Dak stops paying the taxes there’s no way I can keep the house.”

“Well, you’ll be very rich. Dak said it would be worth millions.”

He watched her closely to see how she reacted to this.

Alex just stared off. “My dad probably won’t live to see the new year, will he?”

Devine was startled by the segue. “No, it’s doubtful that he will. Have you spoken to your mother about it?”

“I know everyone hates her because they think she abandoned Dad, but I don’t think that.”

“Whatdoyou think?”

“How about some hot tea? And I can light a fire in my dad’s old study. I’m chilled to the bone now, and not just with the weather.”

“Sounds good. I can help.”

They entered through the back door, where Alex stopped and said, “You mentioned you were on the widow’s walk?”

He looked embarrassed. “I was worried about you. I saw your bike and when you didn’t answer—the door was unlocked.”

“I get it, Travis.”

As he watched her in the kitchen prepare the tea he was struck by her vulnerability and, more important, how she was dealing with it. The woman had personal courage that was admirable. He imagined she took each day as it came, not attempting to go any further than that. And one day at a time was probably difficult enough for her.

He carried the tray while she opened the door to the study. Devine looked around at the worm-eaten walnut floorboards and darkened ceiling beams. In the middle of the room was an old partner’s desk with a well-worn green leatherback chair and a small wooden holder with a large fountain pen in it, and another stand that held two old smoking pipes. Bookshelves lined two walls. On the third wall was a large window looking out to the water. On the fourth was a brick-faced fireplace with a wooden mantel that held framed pictures. There was an old red leather couch and a couple of armchairs set around an industrial-style coffee table constructed of chunky, weathered wood with metal straps across the top and rusty metal wheels. He set the tray down on the coffee table.

“This place looks full of memories.”

Alex smiled as she poured out the teas and set some banana bread out on plates. “Good ones. At least for me.”

Devine handled the kindling and stacked the wood in a particular way in the fireplace. He thinned out an old page of newspaper, lit it, and held it up near the flue opening to draw the flames.

“You look like you’ve done that before,” she commented.

“Army and the Boy Scouts. Some of the training is the same.”

As the fire picked up they drew closer to it. Devine took a bite of the banana bread and exclaimed, “Damn, that is good.”

“I make it myself. It was a recipe Bertie shared.”

“A woman of many talents.”

“Yes, Bertie was.”

“I wasn’t talking about Bertie,” he said.

They stared awkwardly at one another before Devine broke off his gaze.

She said in a halting voice, “I loved coming in here as a child. This was originally Hiram Silkwell’s study, and all the Silkwell men have used it as their inner sanctum over the generations. Those pipes belonged to my grandfather, Tobias Silkwell. My father would be at the desk writing with the fat fountain pen that’s still in the holder over there. He had monogrammed stationery and his penmanship was perfect. I always tried to form my letters like he did. He wrote his own speeches and he liked to do it in here. He would read them to Jenny and she would critique them. He usually agreed with her comments. At least that’s what she told me.”

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