Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page A
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear
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smile. Dale didn’t
think of the world the way ordinary people did. “So, Sylvia’s going?”
“That’s the advantage of being boss. I can ruin her weekend instead.” He glanced around. “I think I’ve got some wine here. Whoops, I mean …”
“Thanks. Coffee will be fine. I do miss it, though. It wasn’t like I planned on becoming an alcoholic. After John died it was just easier than being alone.”
He ran callused fingers through his blond hair and she watched the lines tighten around his blue eyes. “It still surprises me that you’re not drowning in men. What’s wrong with those guys in Canada? Are they uniques or something?”
“You mean eunuchs. And no, they’re not.” She could think of some Saskatchewan ranchers up in the bush that oozed more testosterone than a bulldozer. “Let’s just say that I …” His blue-eyed stare was seeing right through her. “All right, honesty, eh? I couldn’t stand the thought of touching some other man the way I did John. It would have been betrayal. Does that make sense?”
He fingered his bottle of Guinness as the coffeepot began to perk. “Yeah.” He thought for a moment. “But … I mean, you still … well, don’t you?”
“It would be like having sex on the altar, Stewart,” she answered bluntly. “Breaking the covenant his body shared with mine. A betrayal of the man I loved.”
He cocked his ear to listen to the coffeepot. “Maureen, it’s your life. Live it the way you want to. Besides, relationships are all trouble. Every time a man and woman get involved, they make a mess of themselves.”
She noticed the hardening of his mouth. “Not all men are John. And not all women are Ruth Ann Sullivan. Just because she left your father—”
“Coffee’s ready.” He rose on charged muscles and poured a cup for her. After he placed it on the table, he remained standing.
She cradled the cup and looked up at him. “Great, Stewart. I can talk about John, but you can’t talk about your mother leaving your father? Do I detect a disparity here?”
He lowered himself into the chair. “It’s all right when it’s someone else’s problem. Not so all right when it’s your own.” He stared absently into space, and in a moment of illumination, Maureen could see Samuel Stewart’s ghost climbing up onto the sink in the mental institution to finally electrocute himself.
She peered down into her coffee and could see her reflection. Her Iroquoian blood showed in her straight nose and full lips and in her long black braid. “It’s worse with men, I think. You’re all supposed to be such stoic pillars. Baggage left over from the ‘good old days’ when men modeled themselves after the Industrial Revolution.”
“I didn’t follow that.”
She propped her chin on a fist. “A cultural anthropologist once told me that culture reflects the age in which it functions. He said the Victorian age produced men like it did machines. Uniform, steel structures, mass-produced and unbendable. But when you looked inside, all you saw was the framework, girders, rivets, and nothing but empty space in between.”
“You think I’m empty space in between?” He sounded offended.
“Not at all. You’re just as fiercely protective about letting it out as I am about letting anyone in.” She took a sip of coffee. “Your mother broke your father when she left him, and you can’t allow yourself to take that same risk, no matter how miserable it makes you.”
“And you, Doctor?” he asked in clipped tones.
“Me? I’m the one who had a perfect life with a man I loved. My trouble, Stewart”—she pointed at the Guinness in his hands—“and what led me to the bottle, is that I’d do anything to keep from admitting it’s all over. That I’ve lost him.”
She thought of her empty house overlooking Lake Ontario, its windows dark, the rooms quiet with the memories of John. When she finally returned, would she still feel him there, part of the wood, plaster,
think of the world the way ordinary people did. “So, Sylvia’s going?”
“That’s the advantage of being boss. I can ruin her weekend instead.” He glanced around. “I think I’ve got some wine here. Whoops, I mean …”
“Thanks. Coffee will be fine. I do miss it, though. It wasn’t like I planned on becoming an alcoholic. After John died it was just easier than being alone.”
He ran callused fingers through his blond hair and she watched the lines tighten around his blue eyes. “It still surprises me that you’re not drowning in men. What’s wrong with those guys in Canada? Are they uniques or something?”
“You mean eunuchs. And no, they’re not.” She could think of some Saskatchewan ranchers up in the bush that oozed more testosterone than a bulldozer. “Let’s just say that I …” His blue-eyed stare was seeing right through her. “All right, honesty, eh? I couldn’t stand the thought of touching some other man the way I did John. It would have been betrayal. Does that make sense?”
He fingered his bottle of Guinness as the coffeepot began to perk. “Yeah.” He thought for a moment. “But … I mean, you still … well, don’t you?”
“It would be like having sex on the altar, Stewart,” she answered bluntly. “Breaking the covenant his body shared with mine. A betrayal of the man I loved.”
He cocked his ear to listen to the coffeepot. “Maureen, it’s your life. Live it the way you want to. Besides, relationships are all trouble. Every time a man and woman get involved, they make a mess of themselves.”
She noticed the hardening of his mouth. “Not all men are John. And not all women are Ruth Ann Sullivan. Just because she left your father—”
“Coffee’s ready.” He rose on charged muscles and poured a cup for her. After he placed it on the table, he remained standing.
She cradled the cup and looked up at him. “Great, Stewart. I can talk about John, but you can’t talk about your mother leaving your father? Do I detect a disparity here?”
He lowered himself into the chair. “It’s all right when it’s someone else’s problem. Not so all right when it’s your own.” He stared absently into space, and in a moment of illumination, Maureen could see Samuel Stewart’s ghost climbing up onto the sink in the mental institution to finally electrocute himself.
She peered down into her coffee and could see her reflection. Her Iroquoian blood showed in her straight nose and full lips and in her long black braid. “It’s worse with men, I think. You’re all supposed to be such stoic pillars. Baggage left over from the ‘good old days’ when men modeled themselves after the Industrial Revolution.”
“I didn’t follow that.”
She propped her chin on a fist. “A cultural anthropologist once told me that culture reflects the age in which it functions. He said the Victorian age produced men like it did machines. Uniform, steel structures, mass-produced and unbendable. But when you looked inside, all you saw was the framework, girders, rivets, and nothing but empty space in between.”
“You think I’m empty space in between?” He sounded offended.
“Not at all. You’re just as fiercely protective about letting it out as I am about letting anyone in.” She took a sip of coffee. “Your mother broke your father when she left him, and you can’t allow yourself to take that same risk, no matter how miserable it makes you.”
“And you, Doctor?” he asked in clipped tones.
“Me? I’m the one who had a perfect life with a man I loved. My trouble, Stewart”—she pointed at the Guinness in his hands—“and what led me to the bottle, is that I’d do anything to keep from admitting it’s all over. That I’ve lost him.”
She thought of her empty house overlooking Lake Ontario, its windows dark, the rooms quiet with the memories of John. When she finally returned, would she still feel him there, part of the wood, plaster,
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