Page 69 of A Change of Location
Martin hung back on the porch with Hannah. As soon as the two women rounded the clump of trees, he drew her into his arms for a deep and needy kiss.
“I’ve wanted to do that all damn day. Don’t fly away from me, like your eagle.”
“We’re not having sex in my parents’ house. With your mother here.”
He pulled her closer, bringing her pelvis in contact with his. “Where? When?”
Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth parted. “I’ll think of something. Soon.”
For now, he had to be content with a brief session of what she called “necking” before their mothers returned.
His temporary bed was comfortable, but as he lay beneath a quilted cover—reportedly cut and sewn by a Ballard ancestress—he had difficulty falling asleep. Hannah’s proximity should have soothed him, but it had a contrary effect. And from the woodland at the edge of the property, an owl hooted repeatedly and mournfully.
Chapter 21
Waking early, Martin blamed his inability to adjust to the time zone difference on a lack of exercise since leaving Stanwell. He dug into one of his bags for his running clothes and trainers. As quietly as possible he made his way down the staircase and went to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Hannah, in shorts and an oversized t-shirt, sat on the granite worktop drinking orange juice.
“I’m in the mood for a run. Care to join me?”
“If you don’t mind waiting.” She pointed to the white enamel pail on the worktop. “I’ve milked the goats, but I’d better release the hens from their coop and put Rascal in the paddock. There are plenty of ripe strawberries to pick for breakfast, too. Have your coffee. Dad made a pot before he left.” She poured it into a mug and handed it to him, and removed a cream jug from the refrigerator. Picking up a ceramic bowl, she said, “I won’t be long.”
He stepped onto the porch and saw her unhook a mesh gate. A flock of chickens darted out, scrambling over the dewy grass in search of insects. She led the gelding out of the barn into a white-railed enclosure. Kneeling between parallel rows of low, green-leaved plants, she plucked red berries and dropped them into her bowl, occasionally popping one into her mouth.
Overnight, a Maine farmgirl who hadn’t completely uprooted herself from her hillside home had replaced the well-traveled, assertive film professional. Martin marveled at the transformation, amazed by how completely she’d eased back into this place so familiar to her, and utterly alien to him.
He could hear her mother and his chatting.
“After the late service at church, we could drive to Portland,” Gwen was saying as they came into the kitchen. “The art museum has a fine collection. Good morning, Martin.”
“Good morning.”
“And the Old Port is worth a visit. Lovely shops and interesting galleries.”
“Your roses are wonderfully inspiring,” Isobel said. “If there’s an art supplier in the city, I could pick up paper and pencils. Perhaps a watercolor set.”
“Along the coast there’s rugged and dramatic scenery. Rocks and beaches and lighthouses.”
The porch door banged, heralding Hannah’s return.
“We’re going for a run,” she said, depositing the bowl of strawberries in the sink. “If I don’t keep an eye on Martin, he’ll get lost. Or end up as a bear’s breakfast.”
“Ready when you are.”
While they stretched, he described her mother’s itinerary. “What’s your preference?”
“Church. Mum’s in charge of the Flower Guild, she likes to see how the altar arrangements turned out. After lunch, I’m taking you to meet my grandfather. Then we’ll find a place to—to be together. I had a plan, but I’m changing it.”
“Oh? Why?”
“It involved checking into the fanciest hotel in Portland. For the afternoon.”
“I like the way you think.”
“But I’d rather go where our mothers won’t be. So it’s Freeport instead. You can’t come to Maine without seeing L.L. Bean.”
“If you say so.” Surveying the terrain in all directions, he asked, “Do we head uphill, while we’re fresh, or downhill, and leave the worst for the end?”
