Hunter's Moon by Chuck Logan (english novels to read .TXT) 📕

shadows. A long carpenter’s level was propped up against a wall of bare Sheetrock.

The level had a coat of dust and looked like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. Just sitting there.

“Jay’s redoing the porch so we can turn it into a dining room,”

explained Jesse. They stepped onto the unlit, chilly porch, which gave off a cold wood scent. More dust crunched under Harry’s boots.

The ceiling beams were pegged in tongue-and-groove joinery and gabled with a flourish that went beyond mere craft.

“Jay does nice work,” said Harry.

“He’s good with his hands.” She pointed out the roughed-in addition next to the porch where opaque sheets of plastic were stapled over the framing and masked several large packing crates. Plumbing equipment was strewn around. “Whirlpool and sauna go in there,”

she explained.

She glided to the windows and Harry followed, drawn by the train of her energy, which was stronger in the dark. “Can’t 26 / CHUCK LOGAN

see much now, but there’s a hell of a lake out there,” she said.

Their wrists grazed and he felt the tension in the taut, twisted braids and imagined setting it free.

“Two hundred feet deep. Muskie, Northerns, and Lake Trout,”

said Bud, coming up behind them. “We even have some Indian caves at the other end with pictographs.” Again that goofy grin. “The good life in Minnesota,” he said.

Harry watched her face as Bud spoke. She regarded her new husband with the poise of a high-wire artist glancing down on a clown.

Bud clapped his hands together. “We’ll need the snow-shoes tomorrow. I’ll unload the Jeep.”

“I’ll help.” said Harry.

“Nah, you get comfortable,” said Bud, going out the door.

Harry followed Jesse off the porch, across plywood decking, through Sheetrocked partitions, to a restaurant-sized kitchen under construction. Wires dangled and bare fixtures jutted from holes in the drywall. A blueprint gathered dust on a piece of plywood supported by sawhorses. More dust shrouded a Skilsaw tilted on the blueprint and the circular blade was chalky orange with rust.

They ducked through a double thickness of plastic sheeting and entered the remains of the old kitchen. Maple cabinets, a butcher block island, and more scuffed maple on the floor. A stained, cast-iron Wagner kettle bubbled on the tarred burner of an old gas stove.

He smelled venison stew, coffee from a tall stoneware pot. The temporary kitchen opened onto a den.

“This’ll all change,” said Jesse.

The den had the unlived-in feel of a furniture showroom. There was a rich red Persian carpet and tall oak bookcases lined with books; the couch and chairs of deep, crushed coffee bean leather on Scandinavian oak frames looked like they’d never known human contact. The desk, an IBM PC, and a printer were brand new and the TV, stereo, CD player, and VCR were stacked in an oak console and exuded an electric whiff of welded circuits. A hallway opened past the kitchen and led, Harry supposed, to bedrooms.

HUNTER’S MOON / 27

Chris hunched over in a chair toying with a long, black hunting knife at a long trestle table that occupied the area between the old kitchen and the den.

“Chris, put that away,” said Jesse.

Chris smiled and tipped the knife mumblypeg fashion off his index finger. It flipped end over end, pierced the rug, and stuck in the floor with a loud thunk.

“Oops,” said Chris. “Sorry.”

“Put that away, right now,” she repeated. Chris pulled the knife from the floor. He did not put it away and Harry got the distinct impression the boy was pushing new limits. Jesse didn’t strike him as a woman who put up with defiance.

“Why don’t you help Bud bring the stuff in?” Harry said in a friendly voice.

“He said he’d do it,” said Chris, his dark eyes were quietly hostile.

Jesse interceded. “C’mon, let’s get some coffee. You look like you could use some after being on the road.”

“Yeah. I’m bushed,” said Harry as he inhaled the vinegary steam of venison and peppercorns mingled with fresh perked coffee. On the island, two stainless steel bowls were covered with damp, swollen dishtowels and the heavy scent of baking apples and brown sugar wafted from the oven. A radio played country western down low.

Jesse relaxed her erect posture and leaned back on the island between the bowls of rising dough. The stove-moist air was tactile and crowded with fumbling, yeasty fingers. Standing three feet apart, it felt like they were touching all over.

Physically, she implied tremendous leverage. A straight line and a few simple, perfect curves. Harry was moved.

Her hands were vigorous and efficient, the fingernails trimmed, unpainted, used to work. He found himself wanting to see the firm clean flesh of her upper arms.

“Becky, get the man some coffee,” said Jesse. Harry turned. The girl had reappeared and had changed into short, cut-off Levi’s and a T-shirt that had the neck, sleeves, and bottom scissored out. She wasn’t wearing a bra. The muscled

28 / CHUCK LOGAN

dent of her navel showed an inch above the shorts and her thighs rippled smooth along the ragged denim fringe. A serious runner or a swimmer.

Becky poured coffee and handed the cup to Harry. Bud came into the kitchen, picked up the telephone, dialed a number, and began to talk to somebody about plowing the roads. Jesse’s posture took on an erect propriety.

“You want something in that to warm you up?” asked Jesse. She reached for a pint of Jack Daniel’s that sat next to a spice rack on the counter. Harry hadn’t been this close to a pint bottle in years.

“I don’t drink,” said Harry.

“Up here everybody drinks. Unemployment and long winters don’t go together real good,” she said.

“Mom’s a bartender. People who don’t drink are bad for business,”

said Chris.

“I just helped out at the local VFW, part time. More straightening out their books,” said Jesse curtly, raising her chin and giving her son an indignant glance.

Harry nodded politely. She was a regular sensual crowbar. Maybe just what Bud needed to rebuild his life. Or demolish it. Chris looked like a crippled Mowgli, the wolf boy. Becky, the forthright Amazon, seemed