But as she descended into the lowest level—it was carved into the rock to serve as an icebox—it was not the books or rugs or even the suit of armor that caught Mr. Wilson’s attention. No, it was the necklace she was weaving of coarse brown rope and sea glass that she’d left in front of the books on the bookshelf closest to the kitchen. She hadn’t mentioned it to Kallias yet, hadn’t mentioned how she had picked out the whites and blues and clears and teals that best matched him, hadn’t mentioned that she smiled every second she made it with thoughts of him. No, she had kept it secret, wanting it to be a surprise. She worked on it here and there as she waited for the oven to cook or the water to boil.
And now it was Mr. Wilson who held it. Though he was as well-meaning as could be, it still frustrated her. She wanted it to be for Kallias and Kallias alone.
“This is quite interesting, how you’ve managed to braid the glass into the rope. It’ll be a necklace, I assume? The glass seems smooth enough not to pose a problem.”
“Yes,” she said, snatching it away. “It’ll be a necklace.”
“I didn’t know you liked jewelry. I’ve never seen you wear any.”
“I might not wear it.” In fact, she most certainlywouldn’t. “But I wanted to make it all the same.”
He nodded understandingly, but she assumed he didn’t actually understand at all for he said, “It must be very boring home all alone.”
“Mr. Wilson, if I found it boring, I wouldn’t be here.”
There was another nod and he huffed a smile. “You’re right of course. Forgive me. Are you hungry?” He held up his basket. “I packed us a picnic.”
It was nearing lunchtime and she had to admit shewashungry, but it felt remiss not to say, “I do appreciate the thought,Mr. Wilson, and the gifts, and of course, I’d love to eat lunch with you, but I just feel I should say…” Why was it so awkward saying it? “I just feel I should say I really do not see myself getting married.”
He nodded thoughtfully before saying, “Didn’t you say you’d give me a chance before rejecting me? Was a chance all of ten minutes?” He was teasing, or at least, he looked like he was trying to be teasing.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up or feel slighted later, when I really don’t think it’s something that I want.”
She expected words on family lines or a woman’s purpose or this or that, but he only nodded slowly. “I suppose it would be a bit presumptuous to ask why. But certainly, I can respect it. Will you still eat with me…as friends then?”
“Of course,” she happily agreed. She always knew he was a good man. He took it so well.
So they went outside and he laid out a blanket he had brought. There was cheese and apples, meat, bread, and wine. It was quite the spread.
“This is my first time trying wine,” she said, eyeing the glass before throwing it back.
“Daria!” Mr. Wilson exclaimed, practically balking, jerking his hand as if he had meant to take the glass from her. She supposed that wasn’t very ladylike, but that didn’t seem to be his concern. “It is alcoholic,” he reminded, “even if it is sweet.”
Itwasdecently sweet for an alcohol, but she found she didn’t care much for it.
“Well, thank you for reminding me,” she said, reaching for the bottle which he pulled away an inch. “But I have had alcohol before, Mr. Wilson. The shipping company regularly supplies me with whiskey and brandy.” They were in case storms prevented her from leaving the island to get fresh water. Most of her fresh water came from rain water—though in times of extreme waves, the barrels could get contaminated with splashing sea water. It was never enough to make it undrinkable though, just unpleasant.
And at age ten—because the idea of having no water to drink while being surrounded by it scared her—she created a little contraption that turned sea water to fresh water using the sun. She’d put salt water in a glass pitcher where it could heat, then had a lid above that funneled the evaporated water into another bowl.
So she always had ample water—though she didn’t bother telling the shipping company that—and the alcohol had becomesomething only for the darkest nights alone. It’d been a while since she’d had any; it was really piling up in her storage now, and she wondered what Kallias would be like drunk.
She grabbed the bottle from Mr. Wilson’s ever-pulling-away hand and poured herself another glass. He shook his head with a smile and seemed to let the matter go, though his eyes still looked a bit concerned for her.
“So, Mr. Wilson, tell me about yourself.”
“What is there to tell?” he asked, smiling as he put his own glass to his lips. “You already know I’m a carpenter.”
“And that’s all there is to know? One word?”
“It’s not quite as pathetic as that. I love my work. More perhaps than I should, for I truly have very little else to say of myself. But a non-carpenter might find it quite boring.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “You saw how many things in this house Grandpa collected over the years. There are some carvings too and the desk upstairs—the inlay is exquisite.” Not to mention all the secret compartments it had, but she wasn’t about to reveal her hiding places to someone else, especially a carpenter who could probably sniff out the design. “Woodwork, rug weaving, even jewelry making, it’s all art in its own way. You only have to find those who appreciate that.”
“Like you?” His smile was so warm, like one Kallias might give.
“I do appreciate woodwork,” she said, carefully sipping her drink. She did enough of the basics of it for the lighthouse. “But I’m sure I’m not the only one.”
“You’d be surprised. Beauty is often forsaken for price.”
