Sharing Spaces. Nadia Nichols
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way into the room. Senna hesitated for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices from below. She closed her door again, quietly, then braced the chair beneath the door knob, just in case Hanson got any funny ideas in the middle of the night.
Meanwhile, the big husky leapt onto the bed with the grace of an athlete, curled up dead center, heaved a big sigh of contentment, and closed his eyes.
“Very well, then,” Senna relented with a sigh of her own, opening her bag and rummaging within for her pajamas, “but you’re going to have to share.”
CHAPTER FOUR
EARLY MORNING, AND THE KITCHEN was cold enough to warrant kindling a fire in the woodstove. Jack wished there were bacon. He had a hankering to slice it into the frying pan, smell the fragrant hickory smoke and hear the fat sizzle. He searched the refrigerator twice before giving up. Yawning, he emptied the last of the stale coffee from the can into the pot and thought about all the mornings when the admiral had come down the stairs into the kitchen tamping tobacco into his pipe, reaching for his chipped mug and filling it to the rim. “Lots to do today,” he’d growl. “Long row to hoe.”
The admiral was used to being first man up. The fact that Jack had him beat every morning had been a bone of contention at first, but eventually the old man had come to enjoy the luxury of coming down to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Always said the same thing. “Lots to do today. Long row to hoe.” Then he’d drink his coffee and smoke his pipe and plan the day.
Jack missed the old man. He wondered if anyone would miss him half as much if he dropped dead. Doubted it. Well, maybe Charlie, and the huskies out in the dog yard. For a little while, anyway. Time was a river that washed a person away. Memories faded, became dilute. The day would come when he wouldn’t be able to picture the admiral’s face or the way he’d smoked his pipe or paddled a canoe. Made him wonder about Senna. Why had the two of them been at such odds? Damn shame. They could’ve shared a lot, but it was too late now.
The coffee smelled good. Boiling now, perking along smartly and picking up speed. Let ’er rip. Charlie snored softly on the couch, the crackie stretched out alongside him, awake and watching. Always watching, that dog was. Her eyes never closed. Jack shut off the propane burner under the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, carrying it with him out onto the porch. He stood in his stocking feet, breath pluming into the frigid air. June, and the thermometer stood at thirty-two degrees. Not exactly gardening weather, but crisp and wonderful and completely free of mosquitoes. He stood in silence, watching smoke rise from the surface of the lake, watching the sky pale to the east and the stars slowly fade as he drank his first cup of the morning. He heard a noise behind him and turned, seeing movement through the open door.
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