Read Online Sleight of Hand by Robin Hathaway - Free Book Online

can’t waste them on”—I almost said “a worthless punk”—“on painful regrets. We all wish some things were different. I have regrets, too.” I had never told Maggie my regrets—the reason I had left Manhattan and suddenly shown up at this mangy motel in south Jersey. Was this the right time?
    â€œI misdiagnosed a child and she died,” I blurted. “She was seven years old. Do you think I’ll ever get over that?”
    Maggie drew back in order to see me better. “So that’s why you’re here,” she said slowly.
    â€œNo. That’s not why I’m here. It’s why I came. I’m here because I fell in love with this place. I found work I enjoy. And I’ve made some wonderful new friends.”
    â€œOh, Jo, I’m so sorry. I knew there was something, but …” She was a foot shorter than I was, and when she hugged me, her arms reached only to my waist.
    â€œNever mind. I’m dealing with my regrets. And I want you to deal with yours.”
    She nodded. “You’re right. I’ll start now. Would you like a piece of cake?” This time, her smile was not wan but held a glimmer of the spirit she’d had before her son was sentenced to life in prison.
    I laughed and glanced at my watch. “Oh god. I’d like to, but Tom’s expecting me for an archery lesson.”
    This was all right, because Maggie had romantic designs for Tom and me.
    â€œOh, you run along,” she urged, and gave me a little shove.
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    When I drew into Tom’s driveway, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low on the horizon. I was half an hour late. The time I’d spent with Maggie, plus getting the wine, had taken longer than I’d expected. Bayfield was not known for its wine cellars. I’d
found a small liquor store in the back of Bridgeton that had a couple of half-decent bottles, but it had taken awhile.
    Tom strolled onto his porch.
    I shut off my motor. “Sorry I’m late,” I said sincerely. “Do we have time for a few shots?”
    He scanned the horizon and nodded. He had the tackles all ready on the porch.
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    â€œNo,” Tom said. “You have to plant your feet apart and look at that tree over there.” He pointed to a sycamore in a grove of trees near the road.
    I followed his gaze.
    â€œThat’s better. Now take the bow and place your right index finger and the one next to it under the string and draw the string into the notch.”
    He was teaching me how to nock. In layman terms, nocking is hitching your string to the bow. Unfortunately, my mind kept wandering. I noticed, for example, that the two fingers he was telling me to use were the same two that Max had injured, and I added archery to the list of things he wouldn’t be able to do if my surgery proved unsuccessful.
    â€œJo, you’re not paying attention.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œTry it again.”
    This time I did it right, and Tom decided we could go on to the next step: drawing, holding, and aiming.
    â€œHook the end of the first three fingers of your right hand under the string and at the same time lightly clasp the arrow behind the feathers … . Good. Now turn your head and face the target.”
    I actually got off a few good shots—even came near the bull’s-eye once. Tom was satisfied. The sun was sinking as we walked back to the house.

    â€œTime for a beer?”
    I glanced at my watch. It was only five o’clock. But I didn’t want to mix beer and wine. “Make mine a Coke,” I said.
    When we had our drinks, we sat in two wicker chairs and enjoyed the sunset.
    â€œNo two are ever alike,” I commented banally.
    â€œLike snowflakes,” he replied, underlining the banality.
    â€œYeah, exactly.” I took a swig of Coke.
    â€œWhat’ve you been up to?”
    I hesitated. “Working,” I said.
    â€œAny interesting