Free The Hollow by Nora Roberts Page A

green, a warm tone that set off the wide oak trim around the windows. A gorgeous woven rug that might have been vacuumed sometime in the last decade spread across a wide-planked floor of deep, dark wood. The art on the walls was lovely—watercolors, pen-and-ink sketches, photographs. The room might’ve been dominated by a big, flat-screen TV, and a flurry of components, but there was some beautiful pottery.
    His brother’s, she imagined, or his mother’s. He’d shown her his younger brother’s pottery business from the road once. She turned when she sensed Fox come in again.
    â€œI love the art, and the pottery. This piece.” She trailed a finger along a long, slender bottle in dreamy shades of blue. “It’s so fluid.”
    â€œMy mother’s work. My brother, Ridge, did that bowl on the table under the window.”
    She walked to it. “It’s gorgeous.” She traced the gentle curve of its lip. “And the colors, the shapes of them. It’s like a forest in a wide cup.”
    She turned back to take the glass of wine. “How about the art?”
    â€œMy mother, my brother, my sister-in-law. The photographs are Sparrow’s, my younger sister.”
    â€œA lot of talent in one family.”
    â€œThen there are the lawyers, my older sister and me.”
    â€œPracticing law doesn’t take talent?”
    â€œIt takes something.”:.Your father’s a carpenter, isn’t he?"
    She sipped her wine. “Your father’s a carpenter, isn’t he?”
    â€œCarpentry, cabinetmaking. He made the table Ridge’s bowl’s on.”
    â€œMade the table.” Now she crouched to get a closer look. “Imagine that.”
    â€œNo nails, no screws. Tongue and groove. He’s got magic hands.”
    She swiped a finger over the surface, through the dust. “The finish is like satin. Beautiful things.” Eyebrows lifted, she rubbed her finger clean on the sleeve of Fox’s shirt. “I’m forced to say you should take better care of them, and their environment.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t be the first. Why don’t I distract you with food?” He held out a paper menu. “Han Lee’s China Kitchen.”
    â€œIt’s a little early for dinner.”
    â€œI’ll call ahead, tell them to deliver at seven. That way we can get some work done.”
    â€œSweet and sour pork,” she decided after a glance at the menu.
    â€œThat’s it?” he asked when she handed it back to him. “Pitiful. Sweet and sour pork. I’ll take care of the rest.”
    He left her again to make the call. A few minutes later she heard the sound of water running, dishes clinking. Rolling her eyes, she walked into the kitchen where he was attacking the dishes.
    â€œOkay.” Layla took off her jacket.
    â€œNo. Really.”
    â€œYes.” Rolled up her sleeves. “Really. One-time deal, since you’re buying dinner.”
    â€œShould I apologize again?”
    â€œNot this time.” Her eyebrows lifted. “No dishwasher?”
    â€œSee, that’s the problem. I keep thinking I should take out that bottom cabinet there, have one installed, but then I think, hey, it’s just me, and I use paper plates a lot.”
    â€œNot often enough. Is there a clean dish towel somewhere?”
    â€œOh. Well.” He gave her a befuddled frown. “Be right back.”
    Shaking her head, Layla stepped up to the sink he’d deserted and took over. She didn’t mind. It was a mindless chore, oddly relaxing and satisfying. Plus there was a nice view from the window over the sink, one that stretched out to the mountains where the sunlight sprinkled over the steely peaks.
    The wind was still kicking at the trees, and it billowed the white sheets hanging on a line in the yard below. She imagined the sheets would smell like the wind and the mountains when they were tucked onto their bed.
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