the day doing odd jobs
around the cabin like checking electrical fixtures and crawling through the musty attic
rafters to study the condition of the roof. Even though there was always some member of
the family popping up for the odd week, without someone in permanent residence it was
not unusual to find that something or other had fallen into a state of disrepair.
Francis disappeared to God only knew where in the morning, and took it upon himself in
the afternoon to catch their evening supper, which, considering their ample stock of
provisions, was only an excuse. Kirstie studied his broad back from the concealment of
the nearby trees.
He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. It awoke a sense of outrage in her. Half
clad, as usual, he was stretched out fully along the water's edge, his hold on the fishing-
rod negligent to say the least, while has face was turned serenely towards the sun. His
closed eyes, the whole power structure of his body, the elegant composition of one hand
lying across the flat accordion-ripple of his slim stomach, lips, legs—everything about
him was gracefully lax until his fishing-line quivered and grew taut. Then Francis surged
into action before Kirstie had even fully realised that he had a bite.
So he was amazingly quick. So he had patience, and the capacity to enjoy everything
Kirstie loved about the mountain. So there was beauty and harmony in the fluid
performance of his body, and his obvious peace of mind that was such a direct contrast
to her own desperate search for it. So what?
Never mind that it was her fault he was here to begin with. Never mind even that the
issues that lay between them were far more serious. Kirstie was still flooded by a really
righteous pique, because, after all, that was her fishing-spot he was trespassing on.
With a sudden upward flex of his arms that sent every muscle down his back undulating,
Francis heaved out of the water a sleek silver arc that flapped wildly in a brilliant
cascade of sunlit droplets, and he laughed aloud with delight.
'Poacher,' muttered Kirstie, grinding her heel into the spirit of generosity. She turned her
back on the enchanting scene and stomped disgustedly away.
Dinner was little more than a glorified mess. Francis insisted on trying to clean and gut
the trout himself, and in the process of emulating her efficient technique from the day
before he managed to make a thoroughly botched job of it.
Kirstie was standing over him, her arms crossed and eyebrows expressively raised, when
he finally sat back on his heels.
'Ah,' said Francis wisely, as with black head bent he contemplated the mangled fillets
spread out before him like a sacrificial offering. 'It looked somewhat easier when you
did it.'
'It helps if you learn how early in your childhood,' she told him drily. 'I do have about
fifteen years' experience on you.'
He turned an eye up to her. 'Not much good, are they?'
Surprisingly, the diffidence of that made her unbend enough to reply with a crooked
smile, 'I'm sure you've had better in New York restaurants, but they'll cook up all right
and, if we're careful about the bones, we should be able to eat them.'
So Kirstie found herself cooking supper as the sun went down, and she opened a kitchen
window wide to dissipate the smell of fish while they sat down together to pick apart
their meal. Faced again with the glorious vitality of Francis's uncomplicated demeanour,
she retreated into her shell like a startled hermit crab and made a bid to flee soon
afterwards. She'd cooked the supper, hadn't she? Well, he could just get off his backside
and do the dishes.
She nearly made it without any comment from him. But, as she reached the doorway, his
mild voice came from behind and curled gentle shackles around her ankles.
'Running away?'
Kirstie's blonde head came up, then she turned to face him as he looked at her over the
steepled fingers. His kindly emerald regard was a challenge she'd die
around the cabin like checking electrical fixtures and crawling through the musty attic
rafters to study the condition of the roof. Even though there was always some member of
the family popping up for the odd week, without someone in permanent residence it was
not unusual to find that something or other had fallen into a state of disrepair.
Francis disappeared to God only knew where in the morning, and took it upon himself in
the afternoon to catch their evening supper, which, considering their ample stock of
provisions, was only an excuse. Kirstie studied his broad back from the concealment of
the nearby trees.
He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. It awoke a sense of outrage in her. Half
clad, as usual, he was stretched out fully along the water's edge, his hold on the fishing-
rod negligent to say the least, while has face was turned serenely towards the sun. His
closed eyes, the whole power structure of his body, the elegant composition of one hand
lying across the flat accordion-ripple of his slim stomach, lips, legs—everything about
him was gracefully lax until his fishing-line quivered and grew taut. Then Francis surged
into action before Kirstie had even fully realised that he had a bite.
So he was amazingly quick. So he had patience, and the capacity to enjoy everything
Kirstie loved about the mountain. So there was beauty and harmony in the fluid
performance of his body, and his obvious peace of mind that was such a direct contrast
to her own desperate search for it. So what?
Never mind that it was her fault he was here to begin with. Never mind even that the
issues that lay between them were far more serious. Kirstie was still flooded by a really
righteous pique, because, after all, that was her fishing-spot he was trespassing on.
With a sudden upward flex of his arms that sent every muscle down his back undulating,
Francis heaved out of the water a sleek silver arc that flapped wildly in a brilliant
cascade of sunlit droplets, and he laughed aloud with delight.
'Poacher,' muttered Kirstie, grinding her heel into the spirit of generosity. She turned her
back on the enchanting scene and stomped disgustedly away.
Dinner was little more than a glorified mess. Francis insisted on trying to clean and gut
the trout himself, and in the process of emulating her efficient technique from the day
before he managed to make a thoroughly botched job of it.
Kirstie was standing over him, her arms crossed and eyebrows expressively raised, when
he finally sat back on his heels.
'Ah,' said Francis wisely, as with black head bent he contemplated the mangled fillets
spread out before him like a sacrificial offering. 'It looked somewhat easier when you
did it.'
'It helps if you learn how early in your childhood,' she told him drily. 'I do have about
fifteen years' experience on you.'
He turned an eye up to her. 'Not much good, are they?'
Surprisingly, the diffidence of that made her unbend enough to reply with a crooked
smile, 'I'm sure you've had better in New York restaurants, but they'll cook up all right
and, if we're careful about the bones, we should be able to eat them.'
So Kirstie found herself cooking supper as the sun went down, and she opened a kitchen
window wide to dissipate the smell of fish while they sat down together to pick apart
their meal. Faced again with the glorious vitality of Francis's uncomplicated demeanour,
she retreated into her shell like a startled hermit crab and made a bid to flee soon
afterwards. She'd cooked the supper, hadn't she? Well, he could just get off his backside
and do the dishes.
She nearly made it without any comment from him. But, as she reached the doorway, his
mild voice came from behind and curled gentle shackles around her ankles.
'Running away?'
Kirstie's blonde head came up, then she turned to face him as he looked at her over the
steepled fingers. His kindly emerald regard was a challenge she'd die
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