Day we can go to the WEBN fireworks.”
She smiled. “It sounds big.”
“And interesting, right?”
“Yeah, I guess it sounds interesting. But how am I supposed to get there without my own wheels?”
“I’ll come get you in a pickup truck to be named later.”
“And whisk me away to parts unknown? You’ll take the country mouse to the big city?” she teased.
He obeyed an impulse and trailed a finger down the slope of her neck and down her arm. “I’d love to take you there,” he said softly.
She shivered. “I’m driving here. You’ll make me wreck.”
“Are you distracted?” He tugged her hand off the steering wheel, and clasped it in his.
“Yeah, a little.”
“How about now?” He grinned, placed a hot, soft kiss in the palm of her hand and then blew on it.
“Stop it!” she squirmed, but she was laughing.
“Sorry, can’t keep my lips off you.” He nibbled on the inside of her wrist.
“Here,” she said, exasperated as she yanked her hand away. “Try to find another radio station.”
He sighed in exaggerated disappointment and turned back to the dial. “Still nothing.”
Laurel eased up the drive, crunching the gravel under her tires as the cabin came into view.
It looked like something out of some kind of Popular Organics or Hippie House Beautiful magazine. There was a front porch, but no real yard to speak of as it was surrounded by trees on all sides. A detached woodshed stood in the side yard, and there was a makeshift tree house in the back. Bikes and outdoor toys — bats, baseballs, and the occasional doll or action figure — littered the rest of the landscape. Mr. Elliot sat in a homemade rocking chair, a pipe in his teeth and a whittling knife and chunk of wood in his hands. He raised his head at the sound of the truck door slam.
Laurel bounded up the steps to the porch. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Hey, Punkin. What are you two up to?”
“We’ve been up at Grandpa’s. James says he’ll help work on the cabin.”
Mr. Elliot gazed beyond his daughter to the lanky boy she had in tow and spoke around his pipe. “He does, eh?”
“Yep. What should we do next? He and I are both off work day after tomorrow.”
“Don’t know yet, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” He squinted up at James. “Would you care to stay to dinner tonight, son, and discuss it?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose, sir.” Uneasy, James shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Mr. Elliot eyed him up and down. “It’s no trouble. Go tell your mother, Mountain Laurel.”
Laurel smiled up at James in an I-told-you-so way and walked into the house, leaving him outside with his boss.
“You’ve been spending a considerable amount of time with my daughter of late.”
“Yessir.”
Mr. Elliot turned back to his whittling.
“What are you making?” James asked politely.
“Walking stick. Made from hickory. You whittle?”
“No sir.”
“Like to hike?”
“Maybe, a little.”
“Fish?”
“Um . . . not recently, no.”
“No whittling, no hiking, no fishing. What’s your passion then?”
James was taken aback. “What?”
“What’s your passion? What do you love?”
Is this a trick question? “I’m not quite sure what you . . . ”
“To do? What do you want to do? What do you study?”
“I’m a business major . . . ”
“So you study the nickels and dimes. Yet it appears you have little interest in the natural world.” Mr. Elliot smiled wryly to himself and muttered, “An economist without knowledge of nature is like a physicist without knowledge of mathematics.”
“Pardon?”
“Just a little kernel of wisdom from Carl Linnaeus, the father of modern ecology.” He paused. “A business major . . . ” Mr. Elliot was unimpressed. “So you love money then?”
“Who doesn’t?” James joked, but then he realized Mr. Elliot wasn’t amused.
Laurel came out onto the porch, the screen door banging behind her. “Mama says dinner’s ready.”
Mr.
She smiled. “It sounds big.”
“And interesting, right?”
“Yeah, I guess it sounds interesting. But how am I supposed to get there without my own wheels?”
“I’ll come get you in a pickup truck to be named later.”
“And whisk me away to parts unknown? You’ll take the country mouse to the big city?” she teased.
He obeyed an impulse and trailed a finger down the slope of her neck and down her arm. “I’d love to take you there,” he said softly.
She shivered. “I’m driving here. You’ll make me wreck.”
“Are you distracted?” He tugged her hand off the steering wheel, and clasped it in his.
“Yeah, a little.”
“How about now?” He grinned, placed a hot, soft kiss in the palm of her hand and then blew on it.
“Stop it!” she squirmed, but she was laughing.
“Sorry, can’t keep my lips off you.” He nibbled on the inside of her wrist.
“Here,” she said, exasperated as she yanked her hand away. “Try to find another radio station.”
He sighed in exaggerated disappointment and turned back to the dial. “Still nothing.”
Laurel eased up the drive, crunching the gravel under her tires as the cabin came into view.
It looked like something out of some kind of Popular Organics or Hippie House Beautiful magazine. There was a front porch, but no real yard to speak of as it was surrounded by trees on all sides. A detached woodshed stood in the side yard, and there was a makeshift tree house in the back. Bikes and outdoor toys — bats, baseballs, and the occasional doll or action figure — littered the rest of the landscape. Mr. Elliot sat in a homemade rocking chair, a pipe in his teeth and a whittling knife and chunk of wood in his hands. He raised his head at the sound of the truck door slam.
Laurel bounded up the steps to the porch. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Hey, Punkin. What are you two up to?”
“We’ve been up at Grandpa’s. James says he’ll help work on the cabin.”
Mr. Elliot gazed beyond his daughter to the lanky boy she had in tow and spoke around his pipe. “He does, eh?”
“Yep. What should we do next? He and I are both off work day after tomorrow.”
“Don’t know yet, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” He squinted up at James. “Would you care to stay to dinner tonight, son, and discuss it?”
“I wouldn’t want to impose, sir.” Uneasy, James shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Mr. Elliot eyed him up and down. “It’s no trouble. Go tell your mother, Mountain Laurel.”
Laurel smiled up at James in an I-told-you-so way and walked into the house, leaving him outside with his boss.
“You’ve been spending a considerable amount of time with my daughter of late.”
“Yessir.”
Mr. Elliot turned back to his whittling.
“What are you making?” James asked politely.
“Walking stick. Made from hickory. You whittle?”
“No sir.”
“Like to hike?”
“Maybe, a little.”
“Fish?”
“Um . . . not recently, no.”
“No whittling, no hiking, no fishing. What’s your passion then?”
James was taken aback. “What?”
“What’s your passion? What do you love?”
Is this a trick question? “I’m not quite sure what you . . . ”
“To do? What do you want to do? What do you study?”
“I’m a business major . . . ”
“So you study the nickels and dimes. Yet it appears you have little interest in the natural world.” Mr. Elliot smiled wryly to himself and muttered, “An economist without knowledge of nature is like a physicist without knowledge of mathematics.”
“Pardon?”
“Just a little kernel of wisdom from Carl Linnaeus, the father of modern ecology.” He paused. “A business major . . . ” Mr. Elliot was unimpressed. “So you love money then?”
“Who doesn’t?” James joked, but then he realized Mr. Elliot wasn’t amused.
Laurel came out onto the porch, the screen door banging behind her. “Mama says dinner’s ready.”
Mr.
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