“We’re talking eons here, so we’re talking a lot of climatic variations. Leaves, seeds, pollen fall into the pond, the peat preserves them—it creates an anaerobic atmosphere—shuts out the oxygen,” he explained. “No oxygen, no bacterial or fungi growth, slows decay.”
“Why would they have buried their dead in a pond?”
“Could’ve been a religious thing. There’s swamp gas, and it’d cause the pond to glow at night. Methane bubbles up, it gives the illusion—if you’re into that stuff—that the water breathes. Death stops breath.”
Poetic, she thought. “So they might have chosen it to bring breath back to their dead. That’s lovely.”
“Yeah, or it could’ve been because without shovels for digging, it was easier to plug a hole in the muck.”
“I like the first explanation better.” And she smiled at him, beautifully.
“Yeah, well.” Since her smile tended to make his throat go dry, he turned away to pour coffee. And was momentarily baffled not to see the pot.
“It’s in the other room,” she said, reading his expression perfectly. “Would you like me to put on a fresh pot?”
“Yeah, great, fine.” He looked down at his watch, then remembered he wasn’t wearing one. “What’s thetime?”
“It’s just after eleven.”
Alone, he paced the kitchen, then stopped to glance over what had been transcribed. He was forced to admit it was more—a great deal more—than he’d have managed on his own with his injuries.
A couple of weeks at this pace and he could have the articles done—the most irritating of his tasks—while still giving an adequate amount of attention to organizing lab reports and cataloging.
A couple of weeks, he thought, giving his shoulder a testing roll. The doctors had said it would take a couple more weeks for him to have his mobility back. The fact was, they’d said it would be more like four weeks before he’d be able to really pull his own weight again. But in his opinion doctors were always pessimistic.
He should hire a temp typist or something. Probably should. But jeez, he hated having some stranger in his hair. Better to invest in a voice-activated computer. He wondered how long it would take him to get one, set it up and get used to it.
“Coffee’ll take a few minutes.” Camilla sat back down, placed her fingers over the keys. “Where were we?”
Staring out the kitchen window, he picked up precisely where he left off. Within minutes, he’d forgotten she was there. The quiet click of the keys barely registered as he talked of cabbage palms and cattail roots.
He’d segued into fish and game when the sound of tires interrupted. Puzzled, he pulled off his glasses and frowned at the red tow truck that drove up his lane.
What the hell was Carl doing here?
“Is that the garage?”
He blinked, turned. His mind shifted back, and with it a vague irritation. “Right. Yeah.”
Carl was fat as a hippo and wheezed as he levered himself out of the cab of the wrecker. He took off his cap, scratched his widening bald spot, nodded as Del came outside.
“Del.”
“Carl.”
“How’s the folks?”
“Good, last I heard.”
“Good.” Carl’s eyes squinted behind the lenses of amber lensed sunglasses when he spotted Camilla. “That your car down the road a piece, miss?”
“Yes. Were you able to get it out?”
“Not as yet. Took a look at it for you. Got a busted headlight. Wrecked your oil pan. Left front tire’s flat as a pancake. Looks to me like you bent the wheel some, too. Gonna have to replace all that before you’re back on the road.”
“I see. Will you be able to fix it?”
“Yep. Send for the parts once I get it in the shop. Shouldn’t take more’n a couple days.”
A couple of days! She readjusted her plans to drive on by evening. “Oh. All right.”
“Towing, parts, labor, gonna run you about three hundred.”
Distress flickered over her face before she could stop it, though she did manage to swallow the
“Why would they have buried their dead in a pond?”
“Could’ve been a religious thing. There’s swamp gas, and it’d cause the pond to glow at night. Methane bubbles up, it gives the illusion—if you’re into that stuff—that the water breathes. Death stops breath.”
Poetic, she thought. “So they might have chosen it to bring breath back to their dead. That’s lovely.”
“Yeah, or it could’ve been because without shovels for digging, it was easier to plug a hole in the muck.”
“I like the first explanation better.” And she smiled at him, beautifully.
“Yeah, well.” Since her smile tended to make his throat go dry, he turned away to pour coffee. And was momentarily baffled not to see the pot.
“It’s in the other room,” she said, reading his expression perfectly. “Would you like me to put on a fresh pot?”
“Yeah, great, fine.” He looked down at his watch, then remembered he wasn’t wearing one. “What’s thetime?”
“It’s just after eleven.”
Alone, he paced the kitchen, then stopped to glance over what had been transcribed. He was forced to admit it was more—a great deal more—than he’d have managed on his own with his injuries.
A couple of weeks at this pace and he could have the articles done—the most irritating of his tasks—while still giving an adequate amount of attention to organizing lab reports and cataloging.
A couple of weeks, he thought, giving his shoulder a testing roll. The doctors had said it would take a couple more weeks for him to have his mobility back. The fact was, they’d said it would be more like four weeks before he’d be able to really pull his own weight again. But in his opinion doctors were always pessimistic.
He should hire a temp typist or something. Probably should. But jeez, he hated having some stranger in his hair. Better to invest in a voice-activated computer. He wondered how long it would take him to get one, set it up and get used to it.
“Coffee’ll take a few minutes.” Camilla sat back down, placed her fingers over the keys. “Where were we?”
Staring out the kitchen window, he picked up precisely where he left off. Within minutes, he’d forgotten she was there. The quiet click of the keys barely registered as he talked of cabbage palms and cattail roots.
He’d segued into fish and game when the sound of tires interrupted. Puzzled, he pulled off his glasses and frowned at the red tow truck that drove up his lane.
What the hell was Carl doing here?
“Is that the garage?”
He blinked, turned. His mind shifted back, and with it a vague irritation. “Right. Yeah.”
Carl was fat as a hippo and wheezed as he levered himself out of the cab of the wrecker. He took off his cap, scratched his widening bald spot, nodded as Del came outside.
“Del.”
“Carl.”
“How’s the folks?”
“Good, last I heard.”
“Good.” Carl’s eyes squinted behind the lenses of amber lensed sunglasses when he spotted Camilla. “That your car down the road a piece, miss?”
“Yes. Were you able to get it out?”
“Not as yet. Took a look at it for you. Got a busted headlight. Wrecked your oil pan. Left front tire’s flat as a pancake. Looks to me like you bent the wheel some, too. Gonna have to replace all that before you’re back on the road.”
“I see. Will you be able to fix it?”
“Yep. Send for the parts once I get it in the shop. Shouldn’t take more’n a couple days.”
A couple of days! She readjusted her plans to drive on by evening. “Oh. All right.”
“Towing, parts, labor, gonna run you about three hundred.”
Distress flickered over her face before she could stop it, though she did manage to swallow the
Similar Books
