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That morning the oatmeal was considerably better than it had been the day before. At least it didn’t stick to the palate like a day-old peanut-butter sandwich. It had been frugally seasoned with salt and sugar. Cooper ate every bite of his, but didn’t offer her a compliment.
She didn’t take umbrage as she once would have done. His failure to criticize was tantamount to a compliment. They had only promised not to be verbally abusive; they hadn’t promised to shower each other with flattery.
He went outside after breakfast and by the time he came in for a lunch of biscuits and canned soup, he had made himself a pair of snowshoes out of bent greenwood and woven dead vines. He strapped them to his boots and clumped around the cabin, modeling them for her. “These will make it a lot easier to navigate the ravine between here and the river.”
He spent the afternoon away from the cabin. She straightened it, but the housekeeping didn’t take more than half an hour. That left her with nothing to do but fret until she saw him through the window at dusk, making awkward progress toward the cabin in the homemade snowshoes.
She rushed out on the porch to greet him with a cup of hot coffee and a tentative smile, feeling slightly foolish for being so pleased to see him return safe and sound.
Unstrapping the snowshoes and propping them against the cabin’s outside wall, he looked at her strangely and took the proffered coffee. “Thanks.” He stared at her through the cloud of rising steam as he took a sip.
She noticed, as he held the cup to his lips, that they were chapped and that his hands were raw and red despite the shearling gloves he always wore when he was outdoors. She wanted to commiserate, but decided against it. His lecture that morning discouraged anything except mutual tolerance.
“Any luck at the stream?” she asked.
He nodded down toward the creel, which had belonged to the Gawrylows. “It’s full. We’ll leave some out to freeze and save them for days when I can’t get down the ravine. And we should start filling containers with water in case the pump freezes up.”
Nodding, she carried the basket of fish inside, proud of the appetizing aroma of her stew. She had made it with dried beef found among the hermits’ stock of canned food. Its aroma filled the cabin. Cooper ate two full bowls of it and made her day by saying, “Pretty good,” at the conclusion of the meal.
The days followed that basic pattern. He did his chores. She did hers. He helped her with hers. She helped him with his. They were scrupulously polite, if politely distant.
But while they could fill the short days with activity, the evenings seemed endless. They came early. First the sun sank below the tree line and cast the area surrounding the cabin in deep shadow, making outdoor chores hazardous and forcing them indoors.
The instant the sun was swallowed by the horizon, it was dark, even though it was still officially afternoon. Once dinner was eaten and the dishes were washed, there was little to do. There weren’t enough inside chores to keep them occupied and separated. They had nothing to do except stare into the fire and avoid staring at each other—something that required supreme concentration on both their parts.
That first snowfall melted the next day, but the night following that, it snowed again and continued into the day. Because of the steadily dropping temperature and blowing snow, Cooper returned to the cabin earlier than usual, which made the evening stretch out unbearably long.
Rusty, her eyes swinging back and forth like twin pendulums, watched him as he paced the length of the cabin like a caged panther. The four walls were making her claustrophobic, and his restlessness only irritated her further. When she caught him scratching his chin, something she’d noticed him doing repeatedly, she asked with asperity, “What’s the matter?”
He spun around as though spoiling for a fight and delighted that someone had finally picked one with him. “With what?”
“With you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you keep scratching your chin?”
“Because it itches.”
“Itches?”
“The beard. It’s at the itchy stage.”
“Well, that scratching is driving me crazy.”
“Tough.”
“Why don’t you shave it off if it itches?”
“Because I don’t have a razor, that’s why.”
“I—” She broke off when she realized that she was about to make a confession. Then, noticing that his eyes had narrowed suspiciously, she said haughtily. “I do. I have one. I brought it along and now I’ll bet you’re glad I did.”
Leaving her chair near the fireplace, she went to the shelf where she had stored her toiletries. She treasured them as a miser did his bag of gold coins. She brought the plastic, disposable razor back to Cooper. And something else besides. “Put this on your lips.” She passed him the tube of lip gloss. “I noticed that your lips are chapped.”
He took the tube from her and rolled the stick of lip balm out. He seemed pressed to make several comments, but said none of them. She laughed at the awkward way he applied the gloss. When he was done, he handed the capped tube back to her. She gave him the razor. “Be my guest.”
“Thanks.” He turned the razor over in his hand, studying it from every angle. “You didn’t by chance sneak some hand lotion, too, did you?”
