Free Light on Snow by Anita Shreve Page A

snow and that I’ll be right back. I have to get my father, I add.
    “Dad,” I say when I reach his shop, “there are two people here who want to see your furniture.”
    I’ve interrupted him in the middle of the glue-up. He shakes his head vigorously, as if to say,
For heaven’s sake, Nicky, not now.
    “I’ll take them to the front room,” I offer.
    The man and the woman stomp the snow from their boots onto the mat. I tell them that my dad will be with them soon, and that I’ll take them to see the furniture. The woman glances over at the man and smiles, as if to say,
Isn’t she cute?
    We walk through the kitchen and the dining room that is now a den. We pass the room my father and I never enter, the room that is like a shrine. I show them into the front room, where the furniture is: two straight-back chairs; three small tables; a low, square cocktail table; a walnut dining table; an oak bookcase; and a small cabinet.
    “My goodness,” the woman says.
    “I see what the man at the antiques store meant,” the man says. “This looks very much like Shaker.”
    “Simple but beautiful,” the woman says.
    “Good finish,” the man says.
    I wonder if they are complimenting my father’s work for my benefit; if when I leave the room, negative comments will emerge. When people come to look at the furniture, my father almost always excuses himself and goes outside for a smoke. He hates being a salesman. Customers usually come in pairs—couples from Massachusetts or New York looking to take something back with them to the house or the apartment, something to remember the weekend or the vacation by. I am idly thinking about how to bug the showroom when my father enters, wiping his hands on a rag. “Sorry about that,” he says as he crosses the threshold.
    My father hasn’t shaved, and he hasn’t cut his hair. The lids of his eyes are pink-rimmed. Oh God, has he been crying? No, I tell myself, it’s the glue; his eyes are pink because of the fumes. He’s covered with sawdust, and he looks, frankly, frightening.
    There’s a moment of silence. Two moments anyway. Enough to make me look over at the man, who is staring at my father, and then over at my father, who is staring back at him.
    “Robert?” the man asks.
    “Steve,” my father says.
    The two men advance to shake each other’s hand.
    “I heard you’d moved somewhere in New England,” Steve says in a disbelieving voice, as if he cannot credit what he is seeing. “I just never thought . . . Virginia, this is Robert Dillon. We used to work together in the city.”
    Virginia steps forward and shakes my father’s hand. His hand is rough and callused, and I know it smells of turpentine.
    “This is my daughter, Nicky,” my father says.
    “We’ve met,” Steve says, smiling in my direction. “She showed us in.”
    There’s another moment of silence.
    “Well,” Steve says. “Your work is beautiful. Just beautiful. Isn’t it, Virginia?”
    “Yes,” Virginia says. “Very beautiful. The man at the antiques store was right. It bears a strong resemblance to Shaker.”
    I glance at my father, and his face makes my stomach feel hollow.
    “Listen,” Steve says, putting his hand to his forehead. “I just wanted to say . . . I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was. About . . . you know.”
    My father gives a quick shake of his head.
    “You remember,” Steve says to his girlfriend or his wife. “I told you about the man whose wife and baby . . . ?”
    “Oh! Oh, yes!” Virginia says in a gush of comprehension. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she adds. “It must have been so hard.”
    My father is silent. Virginia clutches her pocketbook to her chest. Steve clears his throat and looks around the room.
    “Are you still with Porter?” my father asks.
    “No, I’m on my own now,” Steve says with apparent relief at the change of subject. “I bought two condos in a building on Fifty-seventh Street a year ago.” He pauses. “Worth twice what I