When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae by Kirsten Mortensen Page B

move ahead again to work on smaller branches.
    “Won’t be buying firewood this fall,” he said to her at one point as she moved past him. But he didn’t really talk much. Partly because there was no point in trying to talk over the noise of the chainsaw. Maybe also because when you’re handling a chainsaw it’s a good idea to forego the chitchat and pay attention to what you’re doing.
    But he wasn’t much of a talker the rest of the time, either.
    They quit around dusk. It was impossible for Libby to tell how close they were to the road. She’d long since become too exhausted and hungry to pay attention to anything but the job at hand. Her hands were scratched and aching and her knees felt wobbly.
    All she knew was that they’d been working for hours and there was still a lot more driveway to go.
    Back to the cabin.
    Warmed over stew again for dinner.
    She didn’t have any trouble sleeping that night.

11
     
    The next morning after breakfast he handed her a pair of cotton work gloves. They were his gloves, so of course, huge on her. But plenty welcome for her sore hands.
    And then they went back to work.
    They made it to the road sometime mid-afternoon.
    The back of Dean’s shirt was split down the middle by a dark streak of sweat.
    Back at the cabin, Libby picked up her paperback where she’d left it on the couch. Dean came in a minute later and got a towel. By leaning forward she could see him at the pump in the front yard. Then he started to strip and she leaned back again quickly and opened her novel. What if he had seen her?
    If he had, he gave no sign of it when, a few minutes later, he walked by again. At least, not that she could tell, considering she kept her eyes on her book.
    Bo was dozing at her feet, but stood up when Dean climbed down from the loft. The dog followed him outside.
    She leaned forward again. Saw him load his chainsaw in the back of his truck, get in, and drive off.
    She sat, looking at her book, but not reading.
    One reason she’d tolerated Wallace’s philandering is that he was such a good communicator. She could generally tell that he had a girlfriend—he dressed more carefully, wore more cologne, went out evenings and stayed out longer. But he’d always make sure to tell her some story about where he was going, and he always said when he’d be back, and if he was going to be late he’d call and let her know. And he’d have some story, too, about where he’d gone and something funny that had happened while he was there. The bright hard sanity of it comforted Libby—it was so easy to pretend she believed him.
    He’d been a talker, a born salesman, his charm simply breathtaking. He’d come home from a night with a girlfriend bearing jewelry for his wife.
    Libby stood up and looked out the window, down the driveway where Dean’s truck had just passed. She could guess where he’d gone. He was going to drive around with that chainsaw, maybe to the neighbors’, maybe to a friend’s, maybe to a stranger’s, and if he found someone who needed help, he’d clear out their downed trees.
    Odd to be left alone in this pocket of stillness and yet know as much as she used to know when it was Wallace’s car that was pulling away. Or maybe what matters most when two people communicate is what they don’t say. The thought had never occurred to her before and she began to pace a bit in the grip of a sudden unease.
    She began looking more closely at the objects in his home. One wall of the living room was all books. A lot of history, some novels. A lidded pitcher that struck Libby as Mideastern in design and that looked pretty old—it was copper but had long since acquired a dull greenish patina—was displayed on one end of the top bookshelf. A piece of glass obsidian the size of a football served as one of the bookends.
    She climbed the ladder to the loft.
    Platform bed with a Shaker headboard. King-sized. No surprise, the guy had to be six-six.
    What did surprise her was the