In The Forest Of Harm by Sallie Bissell

hand.
She knows exactly who he is
, Mary thought.
She remembers
every word I ever said about him.
    â€œGood to meet you.” Jonathan smiled his old lopsided smile; the blood seemed to sizzle through Mary’s brain. “Where are you ladies headed today?”
    â€œSomeplace called Atagahi,” Alex replied.
    â€œThat’s a pretty good walk.” He shot a curious glance at Joan’s shiny new boots and stiff jacket. “You guys camp a lot?”
    Mary shook her head. “We’re taking it easy. I’m going to do some sketching, they’re just going to relax. We should be home late Sunday.”
    â€œGoing through the Ghosts?”
    Mary smiled. “Maybe.”
    â€œGhosts?” Joan looked at Mary. “What does he mean,
ghosts
?”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” said Mary. “Just a weird spot in the trail.”
    Jonathan asked, “Got tents and bags?”
    Mary nodded again. “Alex’s boyfriend loaned us some real high-tech stuff.”
    â€œWell, watch out for the weather. We’ve already had one snow, and it’s only October.”
    For a moment, an awkward silence sprouted between them, then Joan spoke. “You got any Virginia Slims up here?”
    â€œIn the back left corner by the magazines.” Jonathan pointed to the rear of the store.
    â€œAny PayDay candy bars?” Alex was poking around the potato chip display.
    â€œMiddle aisle, over the outboard motor oil.”
    Alex and Joan went where he directed, leaving the two of them in silence.
    Mary cleared her throat. “I thought I saw Billy Swimmer over at the Den. Has he started posing for the tourists?”
    Jonathan nodded. “Ever since he lost his public job. Billy’s doing everything he can, trying to raise enough money to get his fiddle out of hock. He’s got a gig waiting with some bluegrass band.”
    Mary laughed. “Did he and Tammy Taylor ever get married?”
    â€œYeah. About three months after their son Michael was born.”
    â€œAnd you’re the postman and bowyer?” Mary looked toward the back of the store where a number of bows hung unstrung against the wall. Longbows, recurves, double recurves—each one glowed in the shadowy light, elegant tributes to the skill in his powerful fingers. Mary could remember a time when those same fingers had smoothed the recurves of her own skin as expertly as they now shaped hickory and maple.
    â€œYeah. The bowyer, the fletcher, the candlestick maker. Three days a week I’m the postman, too.” He looked into her face for a moment as if he wanted to say something else, then he laughed and retreated into polite-ness. “How about you? Happily married, I bet. With two kids and a Volvo.”
    Mary felt her blush deepen. “No, actually not. My work keeps me pretty busy. I’m an assistant DA in Atlanta.”
    â€œLena Owle read you were famous down there. Said they called you Killer Crow or something.”
    Mary laughed. “Lena shouldn’t believe everything she reads in the papers. So how about you? Two kids and a Volvo?”
    He shook his head. “I was married for a while in Britain, but it didn’t work out.”
    A Polaroid photograph taped to the cash register caught her eye. In it, Jonathan stood with his arm around a small, beautiful woman with luminous skin.
    Mary pointed at the photo. “Isn’t that . . .”
    â€œJodie Foster,” he said proudly. “They filmed
Nell
up here. I was in the courtroom scene at the end.”
    â€œHey, congratulations.” Though she liked Jodie Foster, Mary had avoided that movie. Stereo and Technicolor brought the mountains too close for comfort.
    â€œJust my five minutes of fame.”
    He laughed, then Joan’s New York accent rang through the store. “Mary—come check this out.”
    Mary turned. Joan stood in front of a large cork bulletin board cluttered with the various chits