Page 14 of The Woodcarver's Model
Rob turned to find Sheila Marsh standing there, a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand.
He smiled. “Just touring the island. Business, this time.”
She smiled back. “You in the cemetery business?”
“Only if the cemetery’s interesting enough to write about.”
“Ah. A writer.”
“Guilty as charged,” he confessed.
“So—are we interesting enough for you?”
“I’ve taken dozens of shots so far. It’s a beautiful spot. Peaceful.”
“Like a cemetery should be,” she agreed.
Rob watched as Sheila walked by him and placed the flowers at Josiah’s grave. She kissed her hand and touched the stone with it. “It was his birthday yesterday. I don’t think he’ll mind if I’m a day late.” She turned to leave. “Have a nice day,” she said without looking back.
“Thanks. You too. Tell me, what time does the market open?”
“Ten. It’s usually busy at first with people looking for deals.”
“I’d better get moving then,” he said, and they walked out of the cemetery together.
* * * *
He found the market in a small field across from an adorable century-old Anglican church. He parked the Jeep on the road, but rather than trying to find the woodcarver right away, he spent a few minutes photographing the church, inside and out.This will make the perfect intro shot for the article. Who wouldn’t fall in love with a fifty-seat chapel?
He wandered about the small marketplace taking random shots as he went—a young couple selling food preserves, an apple-doll-faced woman with her handmade quilts, a middle-aged fellow selling his knit and felted clothing—all pretty standard fare for this kind of event. But at the end of the row stood one booth which captured his attention. A cluster of people—probably a tourist family, Rob imagined, from the range of sizes and ages and their clothing—were all vying for the attention of the handsome young man behind the counter. This was the woodcarver.
Rob took a few photos from a distance. He checked one, zooming in on the booth to check composition and focus, and noticed the eyes of the woodcarver looking directly at him. It both startled and excited him.
As he neared the booth, he overheard the carver say, “No, the bowl’s carved from a burl. That’s a swelling on a tree trunk.” That was followed by, “I don’t know if Burl Ives was named after a swelling on a tree. It would make me worry about his parents if he was,” at which point the woodcarver looked away from his clients and focused on Rob. Rob swore he could feel the man’s dark eyes—physically feel them on his face. The man redirected his gaze, and a wide smile showed off his beautiful white teeth. White teeth against tanned skin, complemented by lustrous long dark hair and the scruff of a beard—Rob had to remember to breathe.
He continued to watch from a distance and decided not to approach the woodcarver until after his sale was completed…and he was sure it would be completed. No one would be able to resist that man’s magnetism. Rob wandered over to an adjoining booth where the proprietor was selling crocheted… Rob wasn’t even sure what they were, when he heard, “Sally—do you mind me borrowing your visitor for a moment?”
“No problem at all, Mitch. He doesn’t look like a corgi-cosy kinda guy,” she answered.
Corgi cosy?Rob thought.
“You look more like the kinda guy who’d be interested in hard wood than polyester yarn.” There was that smile again, and the eyes that locked onto his.
Rob laughed nervously.What the hell are you doing?he thought to himself.
“Sally knits little coats for dogs. She calls them Corgi Cosies. You just pop them on your dog like you would a tea cosy over a pot of tea.”
“That’s what she meant? I never would have guessed.”
“It takes a bit of time to understand an islander. It took me years.”
“So, you’re not from here?” Rob asked.
“No,” the carver said, smiling. Damn, his teeth were perfect. “I came from out east. From Ontario.”
“Me too,” Rob squeaked.Stop sounding like a hormonal ten-year-old.“Look, I was told that you were the one to talk to”—he stammered—“if I had any questions about the Island.”
“Aw. Are people talking about me? Used to be they’d only say things to each other behind my back. Now they’re telling perfect”—as he said the word, he touched Rob’s shoulder—“strangers.” Rob was ready to buy whatever he was selling.
