Page 12 of The Woodcarver's Model
Sheila got back into her car and edged around Rob’s Jeep.
He stared after her and was going to say something, but the light caught the haze of the dust from Sheila’s car as she drove away, and instead he instinctively reached for his camera and snapped a few more shots. The people here weren’t the friendliest he’d ever met, but the island had a certain charm and for the first time in a long time, Rob started to feel relaxed. As he got back into his Jeep, the voice in his head said,This is where you're meant to be.And for some reason, he knew that it was true.
Chapter Six
The man ran his hands across Mitch’s chest.
“You’ve been working out.”
Mitch was too stoned to speak.
“You like that, don’t you? Your nipples are hard. I didn’t know you were such a pig.”
Mitch had trouble focusing. The world was black and white and grey, like a low-budget film from the sixties.
His mouth was filled with cotton wool, his legs, with lead. He saw his arms moving like they were floating in water. His hands were conducting a slow orchestral movement.
The man rubbed his shoulders.
“God, you are so tense. I know what would make you feel better. It’ll calm you right down.”
He knew the man’s voice, but the face… There was no face. Just a grey sack. And a sharp stab in his arm.
Mitch woke with a start, gasping, soaked with sweat.
* * * *
Mitchell Carcross made a living, of sorts, selling the bowls that he carved out of salvaged wood from the forests of Marsh Island. On occasion he carved trays, stools and even the odd table and chairs, but those were special orders. The bowls were an easier sell, since they were small enough to be toted away by a tourist, and easier to justify. “Look. It’ll hold things!”
Tomorrow he would sell his wares at the Saturday market in town, but today he had two prospective buyers in his workshop—a future bride and groom from Nanaimo looking for gifts for their bridal party.
“You should try to get on one of those studio tours. You could make a killing selling these things.”
He didn’t want to tell them that it would be a pretty short tour, his being the only studio on the island,studiobeing a rather pretentious word to describe the oversized shed they were standing in.
The young couple stood in front of a large table covered in wooden bowls. Different woods, different styles, some with live edges revealing the natural exterior of the tree and some so thin that they looked as if they would break just sitting there.
“Those look fragile, but they can hold up to use,” Mitch said, picking one up and rapping it a few times on the table.
“Impressive,” the man said, lifting a bowl and gently tapping it. “Well?” he said to the woman, “what do you think?”
“I don’t know. I think Becky and Caitlin would like the fancy ones,” she said, indicating the one that had just gone through the torture-test, “but I think Karla would like the rough-and-tumble one.”
“The guys’ll just want one that’ll hold a bag o’ nuts, and one they wouldn’t have to worry about breaking when they knocked it off the table.”
“I’d recommend a selection of styles. That way the recipients will know you chose the bowls specifically for them. I find there’s nothing worse than giving a bunch of people the exact same gift. For the guys, I’d suggest bowls from the natural line,” Mitch pitched in, referring to the bowl that looked rough-hewn from a tree burl. Personally, Mitch hated those. There was no finesse in producing one. “For the ladies, something more refined…except for Karla. She seems to be more the practical type.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Don’t go there, Dave. I’ve warned you. If she prefers girls to boys, that’s none of your business.”
“I’m not saying anything!” he replied, then to Mitch adding, “She could wrestle a trucker into the mud and out-cuss a sailor.”
“Don’t you go talking about my sister that way.”
Mitch guessed that this relationship had less than a fifty-fifty chance of survival.
In spite of that, he made the sale of six bowls for five hundred dollars.
