the bird to shut his beak wasn't helping matters. Kathryn
had her hands over her ears, motioning for Charlotte to do the same, though his
sister-in-law seemed to be taking her cue from Cabot rather than the older
woman. She took far too many cues from her husband in Ash's opinion, but it
wasn't any of his business what pains she took to hide her lacy stays beneath a
show of manly-looking business suits. Perhaps it was exciting to Cabot to know
that, under it all, his wife was just as feminine as any other woman. But it
surely didn't float Ash's boat.
To
his mind (what there was left of it with Liberty flapping wildly as if he could
get up enough steam in the small confines of the hallway to actually take off
and fly), there were enough tough-minded men in the world going around swashing
their buckles. The fact that a woman could be strong and still be soft, be
worldly without being jaded, that she could see things with equal clarity but
from a different point of view—that was a woman's strength, as surely as a
man's need to protect and guide was his.
In
an effort to prevent them all from becoming deaf, and himself from being
beheaded by one of Liberty's powerful wings, Ash lifted his arm and somehow
managed to get it wrapped around the fully hysterical bird. "I'll put him
upstairs," he shouted over the din while trying to calm the macaw down.
He
was close to deaf, but not blind, and he couldn't miss the panic in those wide
eyes of Charlotte's, or the slight gesture with her hand pointing up the
stairwell and making tiny flapping signs. The little chickadee. He'd forgotten
all about it. Clearly putting Liberty in the same room as that runt would be
the end of it.
"On
second thought," he said, pushing the screeching pile of feathers at his
foreman, "take him out to the kitchen, will you, Moss?"
Moss
took him, the bird turning his head clear around to keep an eye on Cabot, but at
least quieting some so that all they heard now was the ringing in their ears.
"And
tell Mrs. Mason if he doesn't stop that noise she can start plucking him for
dinner," Cabot called after the big man's lumbering back.
"That's
not funny," Charlotte said distractedly. Ash supposed there weren't many
things Cabot said that anyone would consider funny.
"Tell
me that squawking psittacine isn't your idea of a gift," Cabot shouted,
pressing with his palm against his left ear and then releasing it as if that
would restore his hearing.
"We've
hardly room," Kathryn agreed, equally loudly. "Unless, of course, he
could stay in the conservatory."
"Out
of the question," Cabot yelled. "He'd eat my best specimens."
"Aren't
some plants poisonous to birds?" Charlotte was rubbing both her temples as
she spoke. "I've been doing some reading—"
"You
don't have to yell," Ash said softly. "I can hear you just
fine."
"A
miracle you're not deaf," Cabot said. "That bird has got to go,
Ashford. Naturally, I thank you for the thought but—"
Ash
reached down for the sack that Moss had brought in along with the bird and
pulled out a small wooden box. "Cigars," he said, handing the case to
his brother and winking at Charlotte as if they were friends. "The bird's
mine. Lives on the Bloody Mary with me and goes with me everywhere since
I won him from a coffee merchant down in the Andes. I expect you to be a good
boy, Cabot, and share these with your wife."
Cabot
left the box in his lap, unopened. Ash knew he loved cigars, especially these
Cuban ones. He also knew his brother was an ungrateful bastard who wouldn't
want Ash to think his gift was truly appreciated and so he tapped the box, said
a perfunctory thanks, and added that Ash "shouldn't have," as if he
truly meant it.
"And
this is for you, Mother." Ash found the small velvet pouch within the
large burlap sack and placed it in his mother's upturned palm. He'd planned
this gift for a long time, ordered it the last time he was in the islands, and
had to wait months for it to be ready. Finding an Italian cameo
had her hands over her ears, motioning for Charlotte to do the same, though his
sister-in-law seemed to be taking her cue from Cabot rather than the older
woman. She took far too many cues from her husband in Ash's opinion, but it
wasn't any of his business what pains she took to hide her lacy stays beneath a
show of manly-looking business suits. Perhaps it was exciting to Cabot to know
that, under it all, his wife was just as feminine as any other woman. But it
surely didn't float Ash's boat.
To
his mind (what there was left of it with Liberty flapping wildly as if he could
get up enough steam in the small confines of the hallway to actually take off
and fly), there were enough tough-minded men in the world going around swashing
their buckles. The fact that a woman could be strong and still be soft, be
worldly without being jaded, that she could see things with equal clarity but
from a different point of view—that was a woman's strength, as surely as a
man's need to protect and guide was his.
In
an effort to prevent them all from becoming deaf, and himself from being
beheaded by one of Liberty's powerful wings, Ash lifted his arm and somehow
managed to get it wrapped around the fully hysterical bird. "I'll put him
upstairs," he shouted over the din while trying to calm the macaw down.
He
was close to deaf, but not blind, and he couldn't miss the panic in those wide
eyes of Charlotte's, or the slight gesture with her hand pointing up the
stairwell and making tiny flapping signs. The little chickadee. He'd forgotten
all about it. Clearly putting Liberty in the same room as that runt would be
the end of it.
"On
second thought," he said, pushing the screeching pile of feathers at his
foreman, "take him out to the kitchen, will you, Moss?"
Moss
took him, the bird turning his head clear around to keep an eye on Cabot, but at
least quieting some so that all they heard now was the ringing in their ears.
"And
tell Mrs. Mason if he doesn't stop that noise she can start plucking him for
dinner," Cabot called after the big man's lumbering back.
"That's
not funny," Charlotte said distractedly. Ash supposed there weren't many
things Cabot said that anyone would consider funny.
"Tell
me that squawking psittacine isn't your idea of a gift," Cabot shouted,
pressing with his palm against his left ear and then releasing it as if that
would restore his hearing.
"We've
hardly room," Kathryn agreed, equally loudly. "Unless, of course, he
could stay in the conservatory."
"Out
of the question," Cabot yelled. "He'd eat my best specimens."
"Aren't
some plants poisonous to birds?" Charlotte was rubbing both her temples as
she spoke. "I've been doing some reading—"
"You
don't have to yell," Ash said softly. "I can hear you just
fine."
"A
miracle you're not deaf," Cabot said. "That bird has got to go,
Ashford. Naturally, I thank you for the thought but—"
Ash
reached down for the sack that Moss had brought in along with the bird and
pulled out a small wooden box. "Cigars," he said, handing the case to
his brother and winking at Charlotte as if they were friends. "The bird's
mine. Lives on the Bloody Mary with me and goes with me everywhere since
I won him from a coffee merchant down in the Andes. I expect you to be a good
boy, Cabot, and share these with your wife."
Cabot
left the box in his lap, unopened. Ash knew he loved cigars, especially these
Cuban ones. He also knew his brother was an ungrateful bastard who wouldn't
want Ash to think his gift was truly appreciated and so he tapped the box, said
a perfunctory thanks, and added that Ash "shouldn't have," as if he
truly meant it.
"And
this is for you, Mother." Ash found the small velvet pouch within the
large burlap sack and placed it in his mother's upturned palm. He'd planned
this gift for a long time, ordered it the last time he was in the islands, and
had to wait months for it to be ready. Finding an Italian cameo
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