Light on snow_ a novel - Anita Shreve [26]
“Used to,” my father says.
“I do,” I say simultaneously.
“We mostly snowshoe now,” my father says. “In the woods.”
Steve glances toward the window, as if searching for the woods. “Snowshoeing,” he says, considering. “Like to try that sometime.”
“Yes,” Virginia says. “I’ve always wanted to try that.”
“Must be quite a workout,” Steve says.
“It can be,” my father says.
“So,” Steve says, glancing around the room again. “We’ve been looking for a cocktail table. And I think, Virginia, we just might have found what we’re looking for.” He moves to my father’s table and runs his hand along the finish. I’m wondering if Steve and Virginia would be at all interested in the table if it weren’t my father’s, if my father hadn’t lost his wife and baby, if my father didn’t look as though he was on his last dime.
“What kind of wood is this?” Steve asks.
“Cherry,” my father says.
“So it’s this color naturally,” Steve says. “Not a stain.”
“No, it’s natural. It’ll darken up over time.”
“Really. What kind of finish is this?”
“Wax over polyurethane,” my father says.
“What grade are you in?” Virginia asks, taking a ChapStick out of her pocketbook and running it across her lips.
“I’m in seventh grade,” I say.
She smacks her lips together. “So you’re . . .”
“Twelve.”
“That’s a good age,” she says, dropping the ChapStick in her purse. “What are you going to do over Christmas vacation?”
I think a minute. “My grandmother is coming,” I say.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Virginia says, slipping the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “My grandmother used to make pfeffernusse at Christmastime. Do you know what that is?”
I shake my head.
“So what’s the damage?” Steve asks my father.
“They’re heavenly,” Virginia says. “They’re rolled cookies made with honey and spices and then dusted with confectioners’ sugar.”
My father clears his throat. He hates discussing money under the best of circumstances. “Two-fifty,” he says quickly.
I glance sharply up at him. I know the table has been priced at $400. I’ve studied the price list, tucked inside each of the two hundred brochures he had printed up on Sweetser’s advice. My father hasn’t given away more than twenty of them. Sweetser argued with him about the pricing, insisting that my father was quoting figures that were too low.
“These are good,” Sweetser said. “How many hours did you put into that table?”
“That’s irrelevant,” my father said.
“Not irrelevant if you want what’s coming to you.”
My father won the argument, and he thinks his prices fair now, even modest. My father is living on the money from the sale of the house in New York as well as my parents’ savings. Still, though, selling the table for $250 is like giving it away.
“Sold,” Steve says.
There is movement then, and tasks, and a discussion about the logistics of fitting the table in the couple’s car versus having it sent. In the end it’s agreed that my father will have the table shipped collect. Discreetly, Virginia writes a check and lays it on an end table.
We all walk to the back hallway. The couple zip up their parkas and shake my father’s hand. “Good seeing you,” Steve says.
“Good meeting you,” Virginia says to my father and me.
“You know, maybe we could get together,” Steve says. “Go out for dinner or have a drink. We’re staying at the Woodstock Inn until Friday. How about I give you a call?”
My father nods slowly. “Sure,” he says.
“You got something to write on?” Steve asks. “I’ll take your number.”
My father disappears into the kitchen.
This ought to be good, I am thinking.
“Would you like to see my mural of ski mountains?” I ask on a sudden impulse. Almost no one except my father and grandmother and Jo has seen it.
“Oh, yes, we’d love to,” Virginia says. “Where is it?”
“In my bedroom,” I say.
I turn and walk, trusting they will follow me. They do, peppering me with questions.