The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [150]
“I’m so sorry,” she said, though it didn’t seem enough. Nor was it sufficient to describe the ache in her heart or the certain knowledge of the pain he was feeling—as if it were her loss as well. “ And I’m sorry I asked to use it. It didn’t occur to me that it might be a special family place that strangers shouldn’t—”
“No. Please. Come and use it every day if you want. I’m glad you love working here. It was built to be loved . . . for happy memories. My mother would be very pleased to know you’re enjoying her canopy.” He stood, kept his back to her as he inspected a support column and the railing beside it. “In fact, there was a time when I’d planned to have it restored and put back, up near the house, but . . .” After a moment he turned to her with a new, different, greater sorrow in his eyes that he tried to shrug off. “Time gets away from you, you know?”
“I do.” She hurried to change the subject. “So did you want to go into the family business or did you do it because it was expected?”
“No, I wanted to. I couldn’t wait to take over and do things my way.” He shook his head at his youthful ignorance, bent his knee, and lowered himself to the railing, his back against the post. “I studied mining and geology in school. After I graduated I came back to work the mines while I got a Masters of Mining Engineering. Lots of paper on my walls but I still don’t know as much as old Charley Mumford did when he came over here. Safer, more modern techniques of mining, certainly, but neither my granddad or my Dad or I got Charley’s nose for great rock.”
“You mean prospecting? Like for gold?”
“Well yeah, sort of, but you can find granite anywhere. Most of the North American continent is underlain with granite. There are deposits that are many miles long and wide and deep, and then there are smaller stocks like the original Mumford Mine.” He tipped his head in the direction of the cliffs. “It’s a very coarse-grained rock, so the prize is in the content of the rock, the minerals . . . mostly feldspar and quartz and some hornblende and mica. Then, depending on the combination and color of the minerals, you get a whole range of colors from white to yellow to gray and black; to pink and green and red and even blue. And because the minerals vary drastically, or not so drastically, from place to place, no two quarries produce the same color granite.”
She listened attentively while he explained in simple terms all the uses for granite, aside from fine-looking countertops—sand, gravel, ready mix and asphalt concrete for highways, tunnels, dams, bridges . . . buildings, sidewalks, and patios . . . statues and tombstones. She’d already heard somewhere that granite was less porous than marble, which made it a harder stone and less susceptible to scratches and stains when used for countertops, but it interested her to learn that it was replacing marble as a building stone because it stands up better to acid rain and that some of the Egyptian pyramids were actually built of limestone and then covered in granite for its beauty and protection.
It wasn’t until he got to the accessory minerals—apatite, magnetite, and zircon—that many of his words melted away, leaving only the deep rumbling sound of his voice rippling through her muscles—warm, relaxing, hypnotic.
“. . . rare minerals deposited in the spaces in granite . . . tourmaline and topaz . . .” and her hand slid from the arm of the chair and touched her drawing pad on the floor. While his rocks were seriously boring to her, his face was anything but. He was enjoying his topic,