gasped.
Maura smile appreciatively. “Thank you, Meg, that’s sweet of you to say so. It’s a bit of a lost art, hand-spinning, but I do love it.”
Her open smile warmed me as I headed for the kitchen.
The muffins were happily ensconced on a plate on the sturdy oak table. The muffins themselves were a masterpiece of baking, with plump blueberries promising perfection with every bite. Their sweet, heady aroma filled the air. I sniffed happily. If the muffins tasted even half as good as they smelled, then I was in for a real treat.
I carefully covered the plate with a linen napkin, mindful of the gentle warmth emanating from the muffins and their deliciously golden surfaces. Maura must have just finished baking them.
I followed Maura’s light-hearted whistling down a winding stone path, through a just-budding rose-garden, and found her leaning against an ancient tree heavy with late white and pink blossoms. Petals showered down around her, swirling in eddies as the breeze picked them up and cast them about.
Maura looked like something out of an old story, with her beautiful hair crowned with heavy blossoms by the branches around her. She leaned against the tree as if it were an old friend of hers, whispering secrets in her ears that no one else could hear.
Her hands were busy with her spindle. Lengths of fine yarn flew from her fingers by the yard. The ball in the basket at her feet grew rounder and plumper, fed by her labors.
Maura’s lilting whistle chirped along as she worked. I could hear the answering trill of a bird. I would not have been surprised if she had suddenly been surrounded with woodland creatures, like Snow White all grown up.
Self-consciously I settled myself at Maura’s feet and busied my hands and mouth with the muffins. They tasted even better than they had smelled. The warm blueberries burst on my tongue.
Maura’s hands, with her spindle, were hypnotizing. Almost as if by magic, the wool wound itself into a long thread, and then she wrapped it around the tail of her spindle. Maura stopped whistling as she worked, but immediately began to hum. There was something so centered about her, so happy.
I wondered what her secret was.
“I’ve seen a spindle like that before,” I told her. “I don’t know if it was a dream... or something, but I saw a young girl, spinning like that. I thought it was some kind of top, at first, before I saw the yarn.”
Maura’s beautiful eyes met mine for a second. “Was that in the old cottage?” She asked, gently.
I nodded. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I don’t even know how I got there.”
“Oh, don’t worry, darling,” Maura said, lightly. “Devin can be a little stern, but you did no harm. He was just worried for you, not about you.”
“Oh.” I shifted uncomfortably.
“He’s not here at present,” Maura added, seeming to sense my thoughts. “He has a little place in town.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I asked, eager to change the subject. “Other than eat your muffins?”
Maura laughed. “Oh, you’ll regret the offer before I’m done with you! Do you know anything about gardening?”
“I grew up on a farm,” I said, slowly. “My Dad and I were just starting to make a good go of it when he… died. I love gardening.”
“That makes two of us,” Maura answered, ignoring my reference to my dad, though her voice was gentle and soft. “I think there’s nothing nicer than eating out of my very own piece of earth. It’s lovely. I try to grow what I can for the table, and that which I don’t grow I barter for. As I said before, I’m a bit old fashioned.”
“I love it,” I said, seriously. “Your home is so comfortable, cozy.”
“I have tried to make it so,” Maura answered, modestly. “I make all my cloth by hand; even those old carpets in the rooms are my handiwork. I sell some things in a little shop in town…
Maura smile appreciatively. “Thank you, Meg, that’s sweet of you to say so. It’s a bit of a lost art, hand-spinning, but I do love it.”
Her open smile warmed me as I headed for the kitchen.
The muffins were happily ensconced on a plate on the sturdy oak table. The muffins themselves were a masterpiece of baking, with plump blueberries promising perfection with every bite. Their sweet, heady aroma filled the air. I sniffed happily. If the muffins tasted even half as good as they smelled, then I was in for a real treat.
I carefully covered the plate with a linen napkin, mindful of the gentle warmth emanating from the muffins and their deliciously golden surfaces. Maura must have just finished baking them.
I followed Maura’s light-hearted whistling down a winding stone path, through a just-budding rose-garden, and found her leaning against an ancient tree heavy with late white and pink blossoms. Petals showered down around her, swirling in eddies as the breeze picked them up and cast them about.
Maura looked like something out of an old story, with her beautiful hair crowned with heavy blossoms by the branches around her. She leaned against the tree as if it were an old friend of hers, whispering secrets in her ears that no one else could hear.
Her hands were busy with her spindle. Lengths of fine yarn flew from her fingers by the yard. The ball in the basket at her feet grew rounder and plumper, fed by her labors.
Maura’s lilting whistle chirped along as she worked. I could hear the answering trill of a bird. I would not have been surprised if she had suddenly been surrounded with woodland creatures, like Snow White all grown up.
Self-consciously I settled myself at Maura’s feet and busied my hands and mouth with the muffins. They tasted even better than they had smelled. The warm blueberries burst on my tongue.
Maura’s hands, with her spindle, were hypnotizing. Almost as if by magic, the wool wound itself into a long thread, and then she wrapped it around the tail of her spindle. Maura stopped whistling as she worked, but immediately began to hum. There was something so centered about her, so happy.
I wondered what her secret was.
“I’ve seen a spindle like that before,” I told her. “I don’t know if it was a dream... or something, but I saw a young girl, spinning like that. I thought it was some kind of top, at first, before I saw the yarn.”
Maura’s beautiful eyes met mine for a second. “Was that in the old cottage?” She asked, gently.
I nodded. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I don’t even know how I got there.”
“Oh, don’t worry, darling,” Maura said, lightly. “Devin can be a little stern, but you did no harm. He was just worried for you, not about you.”
“Oh.” I shifted uncomfortably.
“He’s not here at present,” Maura added, seeming to sense my thoughts. “He has a little place in town.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I asked, eager to change the subject. “Other than eat your muffins?”
Maura laughed. “Oh, you’ll regret the offer before I’m done with you! Do you know anything about gardening?”
“I grew up on a farm,” I said, slowly. “My Dad and I were just starting to make a good go of it when he… died. I love gardening.”
“That makes two of us,” Maura answered, ignoring my reference to my dad, though her voice was gentle and soft. “I think there’s nothing nicer than eating out of my very own piece of earth. It’s lovely. I try to grow what I can for the table, and that which I don’t grow I barter for. As I said before, I’m a bit old fashioned.”
“I love it,” I said, seriously. “Your home is so comfortable, cozy.”
“I have tried to make it so,” Maura answered, modestly. “I make all my cloth by hand; even those old carpets in the rooms are my handiwork. I sell some things in a little shop in town…