Even though the curtains to the studio were closed, a light from inside faintly illuminated the windows. She parked at the gate, looking for an intercom or some other way to signal either building.
When she got out of the car, a black dog almost as large as a St. Bernard appeared out of nowhere, drooling silently from a mouth fixed into a permanent grin. He gave her a little thrill, licking her cold hand with his warm, wet tongue.
A small sign nailed to the gatepost said DON’T WORRY ABOUT THE DOG. BEWARE OF OWNER. The outline of a handgun had been scratched next to this welcome. Nina could locate no bell or intercom.
Nina had changed her mind anyway. She didn’t like the place and she didn’t want to see Terry. The wind blew at the envelope in her hand. She couldn’t just spear it on a twig and stick it on the fence, to flap away at the next gust. She would hop back in the truck, and Sandy could mail it out tomorrow—
"Looking for Terry?" a bass voice said behind her, and she whirled around.
A man stood about three feet away with a rifle in his hand. He had white hair, a white beard, a red face and white eyelashes, and wore a wool shirt and a dirty down vest. His pants hung low under a puff of belly. As Nina turned to answer, the wind gusted and his hair flew around his head.
"Hope you’re not selling anything," he said. He held the rifle negligently by the stock, barrel pointed toward the ground.
"I’m just leaving."
"That envelope for her?"
She hesitated, and he went on. "She’s here. She just locks the gate when she’s not expecting anyone. She expecting you?"
"No."
"I’ll make sure she gets it, if you want. I’m her neighbor. Jerry." Noticing that her eyes stayed stuck on the rifle, he said, "Rabbits are bad this year. The hunters don’t pay no attention to the ’no trespassing’ warnings. They take down anything that moves. Don’t wander around in the woods. Bunch of bad shots out here. The hill’s private property, hers and mine. They got no right."
"Thanks. But—"
"Jerry! Get outta here!" a woman’s voice said loudly from the studio, at a moment between the bursts of wind. The silhouette of a head had appeared behind a drawn-back curtain.
"She doesn’t like me," Jerry said.
"I guess she doesn’t like me either," Nina said.
"She don’t like nobody," the man said. Without another word he turned and walked down the hill, giving the Bronco an appraising glance as he passed.
"It’s me, Terry. Nina Reilly," Nina called after he made his hasty exit. Several minutes later the door opened. An uncombed mop of chestnut hair covered most of the face that looked out.
"What are you doing here?"
Wondering more each second that very thing, Nina opened her briefcase. "Just the Minute Order," she called. "You forgot to take your copy."
"Why didn’t you call first?"
"You know, I’m getting frostbite standing out here in this wind. If you don’t want to let me in, fine. I’ll leave the envelope here with a rock on it."
Terry came out, pushing her arms through a down parka. "Hang on, hang on," she said. She strode down the path, unlocking the gate while Nina waited.
"Come in," Terry ordered, pushing her hair back. She led the way, her long legs pumping quickly up the studio path. Inside, she threw off the parka. She wore a bulky, rust-colored sweater that reached halfway down her thighs over black tights. Without makeup her face was older, paler, and more masculine.
She gestured Nina toward a couch with mussed pillows that still bore the imprint of her head, tossing a chenille throw to the floor. "Have a seat."
"I really don’t have much time, Terry," said Nina, sitting primly on a corner of the couch. Terry watched her from a swivel chair in the middle of the room, a tiny glimmer of amusement in her eyes telling Nina that she knew Nina was squeamish about sitting where Terry had lain. "I’m running late." Nina rummaged in her case and found the papers. She laid them neatly on a small
When she got out of the car, a black dog almost as large as a St. Bernard appeared out of nowhere, drooling silently from a mouth fixed into a permanent grin. He gave her a little thrill, licking her cold hand with his warm, wet tongue.
A small sign nailed to the gatepost said DON’T WORRY ABOUT THE DOG. BEWARE OF OWNER. The outline of a handgun had been scratched next to this welcome. Nina could locate no bell or intercom.
Nina had changed her mind anyway. She didn’t like the place and she didn’t want to see Terry. The wind blew at the envelope in her hand. She couldn’t just spear it on a twig and stick it on the fence, to flap away at the next gust. She would hop back in the truck, and Sandy could mail it out tomorrow—
"Looking for Terry?" a bass voice said behind her, and she whirled around.
A man stood about three feet away with a rifle in his hand. He had white hair, a white beard, a red face and white eyelashes, and wore a wool shirt and a dirty down vest. His pants hung low under a puff of belly. As Nina turned to answer, the wind gusted and his hair flew around his head.
"Hope you’re not selling anything," he said. He held the rifle negligently by the stock, barrel pointed toward the ground.
"I’m just leaving."
"That envelope for her?"
She hesitated, and he went on. "She’s here. She just locks the gate when she’s not expecting anyone. She expecting you?"
"No."
"I’ll make sure she gets it, if you want. I’m her neighbor. Jerry." Noticing that her eyes stayed stuck on the rifle, he said, "Rabbits are bad this year. The hunters don’t pay no attention to the ’no trespassing’ warnings. They take down anything that moves. Don’t wander around in the woods. Bunch of bad shots out here. The hill’s private property, hers and mine. They got no right."
"Thanks. But—"
"Jerry! Get outta here!" a woman’s voice said loudly from the studio, at a moment between the bursts of wind. The silhouette of a head had appeared behind a drawn-back curtain.
"She doesn’t like me," Jerry said.
"I guess she doesn’t like me either," Nina said.
"She don’t like nobody," the man said. Without another word he turned and walked down the hill, giving the Bronco an appraising glance as he passed.
"It’s me, Terry. Nina Reilly," Nina called after he made his hasty exit. Several minutes later the door opened. An uncombed mop of chestnut hair covered most of the face that looked out.
"What are you doing here?"
Wondering more each second that very thing, Nina opened her briefcase. "Just the Minute Order," she called. "You forgot to take your copy."
"Why didn’t you call first?"
"You know, I’m getting frostbite standing out here in this wind. If you don’t want to let me in, fine. I’ll leave the envelope here with a rock on it."
Terry came out, pushing her arms through a down parka. "Hang on, hang on," she said. She strode down the path, unlocking the gate while Nina waited.
"Come in," Terry ordered, pushing her hair back. She led the way, her long legs pumping quickly up the studio path. Inside, she threw off the parka. She wore a bulky, rust-colored sweater that reached halfway down her thighs over black tights. Without makeup her face was older, paler, and more masculine.
She gestured Nina toward a couch with mussed pillows that still bore the imprint of her head, tossing a chenille throw to the floor. "Have a seat."
"I really don’t have much time, Terry," said Nina, sitting primly on a corner of the couch. Terry watched her from a swivel chair in the middle of the room, a tiny glimmer of amusement in her eyes telling Nina that she knew Nina was squeamish about sitting where Terry had lain. "I’m running late." Nina rummaged in her case and found the papers. She laid them neatly on a small
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