Breathless Read Free Page A

corrected her. He never used his first name, but instead answered to his middle.
    When she kissed his cheek, her breath smelled cinnamony. She said she’d been nibbling a sweetroll when she heard the Land Rover.
    Inside, on the kitchen table, beside the sweetroll plate were what Henry assumed to be five utility knives, useful for farm tasks.
    As Nora poured coffee, she said nothing about the knives. Neither did Jim as he moved them—and two slotted sharpening stones—from the table to a nearby counter.
    Nora insisted that Henry stay with them, though she warned him that a sofa bed was all they had by way of accommodations, in the claustrophobic room that Jim called an office.
    “Haven’t had a houseguest in nine years,” Jim said, and itseemed to Henry that a knowing look passed between husband and wife.
    The three of them fell into easy conversation around the kitchen table, over homemade cinnamon rolls and coffee.
    Nora proved charming, and her laugh was infectious. Her hands were strong and rough from work, yet feminine and beautifully shaped.
    She had nothing in common with the sharky women who cruised in Henry’s circle in the city. He was happy for his brother.
    Even as he marveled at how warmly they welcomed him, at how they made him feel at home and among family , as he had never felt with Jim before, Henry was not entirely at ease.
    His vague disquiet arose in part from his perception that Jim and Nora were in a private conversation, one conducted without words, with furtive looks, nuanced gestures, and subtle body language.
    Jim expressed surprise that someone had drawn Henry’s attention to his poetry. “Why would they think we were related?”
    They didn’t share the name Rouvroy. Following their parents’ divorce, Jim had legally taken his mother’s maiden name, Carlyle.
    “Well,” Henry said drily, “maybe it was your photo on the book.”
    Jim laughed at his thickheadedness, and although he seemed to be embarrassed by his brother’s praise, they talked about his poems. Henry’s favorite, “The Barn,” described the humble interior of that structure with such rich images and feeling that it sounded no less beautiful than a cathedral.
    “The greatest beauty always is in everyday things,” Jim said. “Would you like to see the barn?”
    “Yes, I would.” Henry admired his brother’s poetry more than hehad yet been able to say. Jim’s verses had an ineffable quality so haunting it was not easy to discuss. “I’d like to see the barn.”
    Clearly in love with this piece of the world that he and Nora had made their own, Jim grinned, nodded, and rose from the table.
    Nora said, “I’ll put linens on the sofa bed and start thinking about what’s for dinner.”
    Following Jim from the kitchen, Henry glanced at the knives on the counter. On second consideration, they looked less like ordinary task knives than like thrust-and-cut weapons. The four- and five-inch blades had nonreflective finishes. Two seemed to feature assisted-opening mechanisms for quick blade release.
    Then again, Henry knew nothing about farming. These knives might be standard stock at any farm-supply store.
    Outside, the afternoon air remained mild. From the split cords of pine came the scent of raw wood.
    Overhead, two magnificent birds with four-foot wingspans glided in intersecting gyres. The ventral feathers of the first were white with black wing tips. The second was boldly barred in white and brown.
    “Northern harriers,” Jim said. “The white one with the black tips is the male. Harriers are raptors. When they’re hunting, they fly low over the fields and kill with a sudden pounce.”
    He worked the axe loose from the tree-stump chopping block.
    “Better put this away in the barn,” he said, “before I forget and leave it overnight.”
    “Harriers,” Henry said. “They’re so beautiful, you don’t think of them as killing anything.”
    “They eat mostly mice,” Jim said. “But also smaller