Page 23 of Dream Weaver

She turned back to the ax parts, but the way her chest heaved told me she couldn’t focus.

I nearly apologized, but what had I done, actually?

Still, I felt like shit, because she was upset. Not with me, maybe, but upset just the same.

An hour ticked by before I found a way to make a peace offering — filling her water bottle. She accepted it without a word — her version of a peace offering?

“Are axes still made the same way?” I asked, indicating the parts, new and old, on her workbench.

“Yep.” Her tone was as snippy as ever, but maybe a touch less grudging.

One thing was for sure. She had me stumped. Was she a witch or wasn’t she?

“Lunchtime!” Pablo called out gleefully.

Abby whirled away from me and headed for the private corner where she had wolfed down her huge, homemade lunch the previous day. Enough food for an entire fire crew — and we were notoriously big eaters.

I sighed and repeated my supermarket run — along with my vow to quit this job.

When we returned to work, Abby was…well, notsubdued, but…quiet. No, that didn’t fit either. More focused, in any case, and not half as resentful as usual.

A good sign? A dangerous one? I kept my distance, just in case.

At some point, her watch alarm sounded, and she gave herself a little shake.

“I have to go,” she said, leaving the ax on her workbench.

I glanced at the shop clock. Three o’clock. Time to pick up her daughter?

“I’ll be right back,” she said, jogging to her car. “Don’t touch anything.”

I sighed. So much for making headway.

I swept the shop floor — the entire floor, not just Abby’s section, earning praise from Bob and chuckles from the others. Then, after a few sips of juice from the carton I’d bought at lunchtime, I practiced assembling the vintage ax Abby was using as a model.

Abby’s car — a green Ford older than either of us — was loud enough to serve as an early warning system. I put the ax back exactly as Abby had left it.

“Hi, Mr. Cooper!” Claire called, all bright and happy.

“Just Cooper,” I reminded her gently. “How was school?”

“Great! Look what I made in art class!”

“Wow! Is that Black Beauty?”

“Bucephalus,” she corrected without the slightest hint of exasperation.Sounlike her mother.

“Bu-who?”

“Alexander the Great’s horse,” she said, all matter-of-fact.

Wow. A kid who knew ancient history — or the equine side of it, at least.

Claire made a round of the metal shop so everyone could admire her artwork. Abby, meanwhile, took one look at the workbench and shot me a dirty look that said,You touched, dammit.

I met her gaze, telegraphing something like,Yes, I did. But I handled your work with respect, and I put everything back as I found it.

Yeesh. What was up with her? I’d grown up with five siblings, and I knew how to share. Then again, I had a mom who’d imposed law and order in an otherwise chaotic household. Maybe Abby hadn’t?

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