Terrible Tide Read Online Free PDF

Working with sharp tools—”
    “He’s a big boy now, Fan. Get cracking, will you?”
    Roger this and Roger that. Roger wouldn’t take enough whiskey to addle his handsome head and make him cut his little pinkie finger. Too bad Fan hadn’t had six or eight kids so she could have spread her maternal urges thin enough to be tolerable. The way she coddled that human haddock was positively scary. Holly slammed a frying pan on the stove, scooped a dollop of marge into the bottom, and started slicing cold boiled potatoes. Whatever had possessed her brother to make such an uncharacteristically spontaneous gesture? This wood-carver must be something special.
    Sam Neill didn’t look special, nor did he act as if he thought he was. He acknowledged the introduction to Holly pleasantly enough, then seemed quite content to sit down beside the kitchen stove and accept the jelly tumbler of weak whiskey and water with no ice that Holly handed him straight from the sink. He and Roger gnawed absently at hunks of the flavorsome local cheddar she gave them, talking about furniture. Neither of them paid any attention to Holly except to edge out of her way when she had to set the table. No sense in bothering to serve in the dining room. They wouldn’t notice.
    The men were still talking furniture when they sat down to eat. They talked through the soup, the salad, the eggs and hashed browns, the canned peaches and cookies, the numerous cups of strong tea. Once Neill asked Holly to pass the milk jug. Once he said, “This is very good, Mrs. Howe.” Had they been two Chippendale chairs, the two women might have gotten more attention.
    Holly didn’t mind, she enjoyed listening to them. For the first time since she could remember, she was seeing Roger as a real person, somebody she could be proud of, winning respect from this man who also had the hands, the eyes and the dedication of a master craftsman.
    Fan, on the other hand, could take no pleasure in a conversation that left her no chance to talk. She fidgeted, attempted several times to break in, and finally did manage to blurt out, “How much do you expect to get paid, Mr. Neill?”
    Holly could tell Neill was shocked and Roger embarrassed, though both of them tried to put a decent face on the matter that should have been handled quietly and offhandedly out in the workshop. Instead Neill was forced to mumble, “Whatever Roger thinks I’m worth,” and quickly ask Holly how long she expected to be in Jugtown.
    “I don’t know yet,” she replied. “It depends on how soon I get fired from my new job.”
    “What job is that?” He was studying her carved-up face with what might have been professional interest.
    “I’m a lion tamer. Don’t I look it?”
    She was sorry as soon as she’d given him the flip reply. Neill was only trying to be polite. “Actually, I’ve been a photographers’ fashion model. There was an accident in the studio when a light broke, and I was injured, as you’ve no doubt gathered. I’m up here trying to heal. Your uncle mentioned there was an opening at Cliff House for a sort of junior assistant chore girl, so I took it. I may as well be doing something useful, since I’m none too ornamental right now.”
    “That’s about what I’m doing.” Neill set down his cup with finality. “Thanks for the dinner.”
    When he got up from the table, Holly saw he was taller than she’d realized, almost as tall as Roger and not yet beginning to thicken at the waist. Like so many Maritimers, he had the map of Scotland printed all over his craggy features. His hair and skin had a ruddy glow, his eyes were blue as the bluebonnets over the border, almost as blue as Holly’s own. His clothes were what any local workman would wear: a plaid flannel shirt, nondescript trousers, and ankle-high boots with thick soles. He was probably a nice enough chap in his way.
    She nodded farewell and began to clear the table. As Neill turned to leave, something about the shape of