watering cans.
“From Vancouver,” he said, picking up where she’d left off as he started the water boiling. “Do you live alone?”
He gets right to the point, she thought, folding her scarf and unzipping her down jacket.
“No, I live with at least six hundred thousand other Vancouverites in a rather tight space. And you, do you live alone?”
He smiled, and his serious eyes instantly grew warmer.
“I just thought you might have family there.”
Of course. Belonging to any family at all was obviously very important to the people in Stormy Cove. You had to have a clan. She played the ball back into his court.
“What about you? Do you have family?”
He got a second cup out of the cupboard and hung a tea bag on it.
“I’ve got six brothers and four sisters. But only one sister lives here.”
She quickly did the numbers. “ Eleven children?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Didn’t they tell you that at the store?”
“No, but I did hear that you give away pretty earrings.”
He straightened up with a jerk. “Who told you that?”
“Mavis.”
Lori shifted around on her seat. The conversation had taken an unintended turn. Noah filled her cup with boiling water and placed it in front of her.
“Some people talk too much.” He pushed the milk toward her.
“Do you have any regular milk?” she inquired.
He shook his head. “Sorry. We grow up here with canned milk.”
“And Tetley tea.”
She scanned the cans, pitchers, and cups neatly organized by color on the corner shelf—“Tetley” was on all of them. It looked like a promotion.
“Mm-hm, we all have Tetley tea. You’re living in Cletus Gould’s place?”
“You know already?”
“Word gets around fast here.”
“What else do you know about me?”
He drank his tea with his arms propped up on the table. She noticed his huge hands.
“Name’s Laura. You’re a photographer. You want to take pictures of our outport. And us fishermen. You couldn’t find butter in the store because nobody here uses it, and you didn’t want margarine. You asked if the school library had Internet and were astounded we have broadband at home.”
Lori shook her head in amusement.
“And now all the denizens of Stormy Cove will say I think they’ve been living under a rock?”
“No, they say you wear a funny hat.”
Lori instinctively raised a hand to her head. “It’s a beret, that’s all.”
“Women here don’t wear that sort of thing,” he announced, as if proclaiming a law of nature. “And certainly not in that color red.”
“It’s not red, it’s orange, but I admit I have a red beret as well, and just about every color—and the name’s Lori, not Laura.”
He stood up and went to the fridge.
“Would you like some bread and molasses?”
She accepted, though it turned out that the molasses was just caramelized sugar, and Noah had put margarine and not butter on the toast because it had been like that for generations.
“So what about the snowmobile?” she asked between bites.
He reflected, then said, “I’ll probably have one for you next week. But first you’ve got to learn how to drive one.”
He sized up the jacket she’d hung on the chair.
“Got anything warmer?”
“I do. Why?”
“We’re going to the Barrens.”
Two hours later, after making a stop back in town, Lori was sitting behind Noah Whalen’s broad back on his snowmobile. This had surely been registered by several pairs of eyes at the windows.
For a man who couldn’t know what he was getting into with a female photographer on the rear seat, Noah showed astonishing patience. Time and again, Lori tapped him on the shoulder because she wanted to capture something with her Nikon. He stopped at once, and she managed to swing her right leg over the snowmobile, which seemed as big as a pony to her. Each time, she took off the helmet Noah had loaned her; it protected her face from the cold airflow that would have otherwise numbed it immediately. She
“From Vancouver,” he said, picking up where she’d left off as he started the water boiling. “Do you live alone?”
He gets right to the point, she thought, folding her scarf and unzipping her down jacket.
“No, I live with at least six hundred thousand other Vancouverites in a rather tight space. And you, do you live alone?”
He smiled, and his serious eyes instantly grew warmer.
“I just thought you might have family there.”
Of course. Belonging to any family at all was obviously very important to the people in Stormy Cove. You had to have a clan. She played the ball back into his court.
“What about you? Do you have family?”
He got a second cup out of the cupboard and hung a tea bag on it.
“I’ve got six brothers and four sisters. But only one sister lives here.”
She quickly did the numbers. “ Eleven children?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Didn’t they tell you that at the store?”
“No, but I did hear that you give away pretty earrings.”
He straightened up with a jerk. “Who told you that?”
“Mavis.”
Lori shifted around on her seat. The conversation had taken an unintended turn. Noah filled her cup with boiling water and placed it in front of her.
“Some people talk too much.” He pushed the milk toward her.
“Do you have any regular milk?” she inquired.
He shook his head. “Sorry. We grow up here with canned milk.”
“And Tetley tea.”
She scanned the cans, pitchers, and cups neatly organized by color on the corner shelf—“Tetley” was on all of them. It looked like a promotion.
“Mm-hm, we all have Tetley tea. You’re living in Cletus Gould’s place?”
“You know already?”
“Word gets around fast here.”
“What else do you know about me?”
He drank his tea with his arms propped up on the table. She noticed his huge hands.
“Name’s Laura. You’re a photographer. You want to take pictures of our outport. And us fishermen. You couldn’t find butter in the store because nobody here uses it, and you didn’t want margarine. You asked if the school library had Internet and were astounded we have broadband at home.”
Lori shook her head in amusement.
“And now all the denizens of Stormy Cove will say I think they’ve been living under a rock?”
“No, they say you wear a funny hat.”
Lori instinctively raised a hand to her head. “It’s a beret, that’s all.”
“Women here don’t wear that sort of thing,” he announced, as if proclaiming a law of nature. “And certainly not in that color red.”
“It’s not red, it’s orange, but I admit I have a red beret as well, and just about every color—and the name’s Lori, not Laura.”
He stood up and went to the fridge.
“Would you like some bread and molasses?”
She accepted, though it turned out that the molasses was just caramelized sugar, and Noah had put margarine and not butter on the toast because it had been like that for generations.
“So what about the snowmobile?” she asked between bites.
He reflected, then said, “I’ll probably have one for you next week. But first you’ve got to learn how to drive one.”
He sized up the jacket she’d hung on the chair.
“Got anything warmer?”
“I do. Why?”
“We’re going to the Barrens.”
Two hours later, after making a stop back in town, Lori was sitting behind Noah Whalen’s broad back on his snowmobile. This had surely been registered by several pairs of eyes at the windows.
For a man who couldn’t know what he was getting into with a female photographer on the rear seat, Noah showed astonishing patience. Time and again, Lori tapped him on the shoulder because she wanted to capture something with her Nikon. He stopped at once, and she managed to swing her right leg over the snowmobile, which seemed as big as a pony to her. Each time, she took off the helmet Noah had loaned her; it protected her face from the cold airflow that would have otherwise numbed it immediately. She
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