her nature to remain inside on such a day, cooped up with dust and a clipboard. But there were ways, Shane decided as she leaned on the windowsill, of doing her duty
and
having fun.
After dressing in an old T-shirt and faded red shorts, she rummaged through the basement storage closet and unearthed a can of white paint and a roller. The front porch, she knew, needed more repair than her meager talents could provide, but the back was still sturdy enough. All it required was a coat or two of paint to make it bright and cheerful again.
Picking up a portable radio on her way, Shane headed outside. She fiddled with the tuner until she found a station that matched her mood; then, after turning the volume up, she went to work.
In thirty minutes, the porch was swept clean and hosed down. In the bright sun, it dried quickly while Shane pried the lid off the paint can. She stirred it, enjoying the day and the prospect of work. Once or twice, she glanced toward the old logging path, wondering when Vance would “keep in touch.” She would have liked to have seen him coming down the path toward her. He had a long, loose-limbed stride she admired, and a way of looking as though he were in complete command of himself and anything that might get in his way. Shane liked that—the confidence, the hint of controlled power.
She had always admired people of strength. Her grandmother, through all her hardships and disappointments, had remained a strong woman right to the end. Shane would have admitted, for all their disagreements, that Cy was a strong man. What he lacked, in her opinion, was the underlying kindness that balanced strength and kept it from being hard. She sensed there was kindness in Vance, though he was far from easy with it. But the fact that the trait existed at all made the difference for Shane.
Turning away from the path, she took her bucket, roller and pan to the end of the porch. She poured, knelt, then took a deep breath and began to paint.
When Vance came to the end of the path, he stopped to watch her. She had nearly a third of the porch done. Her arms were splattered with tiny specks of white. The radio blared, and she sang exuberantly along with it. Her hips kept the beat. As she moved, the thin, faded material of her shorts strained over her bottom. That she was having a marvelous time with the homey chore was as obvious as her lack of skill. A smile tugged at his mouth when Shane leaned over for the bucket and rested her palm on the wet paint. Cheerfully, she swore, then wiped her hand haphazardly on the back of her shorts.
“I thought you said you could paint,” Vance commented.
Shane started, nearly upsetting the contents of the bucket as she turned. Still on all fours, she smiled at him. “I said I could paint. I didn’t say I was neat.” Lifting her hand, she shielded her eyes against the sun and watched him walk to her. “Did you come to supervise?”
He looked down at her and shook his head. “No, I think it’s already too late for that.”
Shane lifted a brow. “It’s going to be just fine when I’ve finished.”
Vance made a noncommittal sound. “I’ve got a list of materials for you, but I need to make a few more measurements.”
“That was quick.” Shane sat back on her haunches. Vance shrugged, not wanting to admit he’d written it out in the middle of the night when sleep had eluded him. “There was something else,” she continued, stretching her back muscles. Leaning over, she turned down the volume on the radio so that it was only a soft murmur. “The front porch.”
Vance glanced down at her handiwork. “Have you painted that too?”
Correctly reading his impression of her talents, Shane made a face. “No, I didn’t paint that too.”
“That’s a blessing. What stopped you?”
“It’s falling apart. Maybe you can suggest what I should do about it. Oh, look!” Shane grabbed his hand, forgetting the paint as she spotted a family of quail bobbing single file
and
having fun.
After dressing in an old T-shirt and faded red shorts, she rummaged through the basement storage closet and unearthed a can of white paint and a roller. The front porch, she knew, needed more repair than her meager talents could provide, but the back was still sturdy enough. All it required was a coat or two of paint to make it bright and cheerful again.
Picking up a portable radio on her way, Shane headed outside. She fiddled with the tuner until she found a station that matched her mood; then, after turning the volume up, she went to work.
In thirty minutes, the porch was swept clean and hosed down. In the bright sun, it dried quickly while Shane pried the lid off the paint can. She stirred it, enjoying the day and the prospect of work. Once or twice, she glanced toward the old logging path, wondering when Vance would “keep in touch.” She would have liked to have seen him coming down the path toward her. He had a long, loose-limbed stride she admired, and a way of looking as though he were in complete command of himself and anything that might get in his way. Shane liked that—the confidence, the hint of controlled power.
She had always admired people of strength. Her grandmother, through all her hardships and disappointments, had remained a strong woman right to the end. Shane would have admitted, for all their disagreements, that Cy was a strong man. What he lacked, in her opinion, was the underlying kindness that balanced strength and kept it from being hard. She sensed there was kindness in Vance, though he was far from easy with it. But the fact that the trait existed at all made the difference for Shane.
Turning away from the path, she took her bucket, roller and pan to the end of the porch. She poured, knelt, then took a deep breath and began to paint.
When Vance came to the end of the path, he stopped to watch her. She had nearly a third of the porch done. Her arms were splattered with tiny specks of white. The radio blared, and she sang exuberantly along with it. Her hips kept the beat. As she moved, the thin, faded material of her shorts strained over her bottom. That she was having a marvelous time with the homey chore was as obvious as her lack of skill. A smile tugged at his mouth when Shane leaned over for the bucket and rested her palm on the wet paint. Cheerfully, she swore, then wiped her hand haphazardly on the back of her shorts.
“I thought you said you could paint,” Vance commented.
Shane started, nearly upsetting the contents of the bucket as she turned. Still on all fours, she smiled at him. “I said I could paint. I didn’t say I was neat.” Lifting her hand, she shielded her eyes against the sun and watched him walk to her. “Did you come to supervise?”
He looked down at her and shook his head. “No, I think it’s already too late for that.”
Shane lifted a brow. “It’s going to be just fine when I’ve finished.”
Vance made a noncommittal sound. “I’ve got a list of materials for you, but I need to make a few more measurements.”
“That was quick.” Shane sat back on her haunches. Vance shrugged, not wanting to admit he’d written it out in the middle of the night when sleep had eluded him. “There was something else,” she continued, stretching her back muscles. Leaning over, she turned down the volume on the radio so that it was only a soft murmur. “The front porch.”
Vance glanced down at her handiwork. “Have you painted that too?”
Correctly reading his impression of her talents, Shane made a face. “No, I didn’t paint that too.”
“That’s a blessing. What stopped you?”
“It’s falling apart. Maybe you can suggest what I should do about it. Oh, look!” Shane grabbed his hand, forgetting the paint as she spotted a family of quail bobbing single file
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