Light on snow_ a novel - Anita Shreve [28]
“Is that so,” my father says.
Later that afternoon I am working on a beaded necklace for my grandmother when I hear a motor. I go to the window and look out and see a small blue car in the driveway. I watch as it keeps going to the side of the barn where my father keeps his truck.
Wow, I think. A Christmas rush.
I run down the stairs and open the door. A young woman stands on the doorstep, her hands in the pockets of a pale blue parka. She looks up through her dark blond hair. She pushes the hair off her face and tucks it behind her ear. Her hair is very fine and dead straight.
“Is Mr. Dillon here?” she asks in a voice so faint I have to lean my head out the door.
“Did you say Dillon?” I ask.
She nods.
“Yes, he’s here.”
“A man at the antiques store says Mr. Dillon makes furniture and has some pieces for sale? That I should come up here and take a look? I’m sorry, I didn’t know where to park.” Her voice is strained, and she speaks in a rush. She has eyes that match her jacket, and her lashes are covered with flakes. The snow is making a lace cap at the top of her head.
“You better come in,” I say.
She steps across the threshold. Her jeans fall over her boots and are wet at the hems. She takes a quick glance around the back hallway—at the woolen hats and baseball caps, at the fall and winter jackets, at a bag of road salt and a can of WD-40 on a shelf. It has grown darker with the snow, so I flip on the light switch. The woman flinches slightly with a small twitch of her head. Her hair falls across her face again, and she tucks it behind her ear.
“I’ll get my father,” I say.
I run along the passageway and into the barn. He looks up from the drawer he’s working on.
“You’ll never believe this,” I say. “We’ve got another customer.”
“I thought I heard a motor,” he says.
He returns with me to the house. The woman is still standing by the back door. Her shoulders are hunched, and she has her arms folded across her chest.
“The furniture’s in the front room,” my father says, gesturing with his hand.
“I should take off my boots,” the woman says.
I am about to say that it doesn’t matter, but the woman is already unzipping a black leather boot. She shakes it off and then unzips the other. She places them side by side on the mat. The hems of her jeans fall to the floor. When she stands, I can see that her face is pasty—not unusual in the winter in New Hampshire.
“I need something for my parents for Christmas,” she says.
“I can show you what I have,” my father says. He glances through the window. “You have any trouble with the road?” he asks.
“It’s pretty slippery,” she says.
I follow my father and the woman into the front room. Her parka flares at her hips. Her hair is caught in the back of her collar. She moves stiffly, and I’m guessing she’s wishing that she hadn’t come.
In the front room the light is such that my father and I can see what we didn’t just an hour earlier: the cherry and walnut and maple tables and chairs are covered with a fine layer of dust.
“Let me get a cloth,” my father says.
When he leaves the room, the woman frees her hair from her collar. She unzips her parka. I examine her clothes. She has on a pink cardigan over a white blouse that she hasn’t tucked into her jeans. At her throat is a silver amulet on a leather cord. I make beaded necklaces on fine rawhide with silver clasps. I plan to sell them in the summer with the raspberries.
“I like your necklace,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, her hand going to her throat. “Thanks.”
“I make jewelry,” I add.
“That’s great,” she says in a voice that makes it clear she isn’t thinking about jewelry.
She fingers a table, leaving a meandering trail in the dust.
“So you need a present,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “For my parents.”
“Do you live in Shepherd?” I ask, pretty sure I haven’t seen her in town.
“I’m just shopping,” she says.
“Sorry about this,” my father says as he returns with a dustcloth.
The woman stands to one side as he polishes the table. “Your stuff is nice,” she says.
She wanders from piece to piece, touching each