Free Sharing Spaces by Nadia Nichols Page B

peppered his conversation with words she’d never heard before. By the time she’d finished wiping down the counters, Charlie was getting ready to sack out on the couch. This was apparently also the norm, as he knew exactly where to find two blankets and a pillow stashed inside an old sea chest which also served as the coffee table. A small, black fox-like dog had appeared out of the blue arctic twilight to settle down with him, behaving as though it had been born and raised in that very living room.
    Senna hung the dishrag and towel behind the wood stove to dry and took Jack aside before heading upstairs for the night. “Just out of curiosity, is there anyone else who might show up to spend the night?”
    â€œNope. Just Charlie. But unless you want Chilkat on your bed, better keep your door closed. That damn dog takes up most of the mattress. You’d better go up now. I don’t know what time morning comes in Maine, but in Labrador it comes really, really early.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Senna said, turning her back on him and starting up the stairs. “I’m an early riser. You won’t be needing to roust me out of bed.”
    â€œToo bad. That might be kinda fun,” he called after her. Senna ignored his parting shot and took asylum in her grandfather’s room, closing the door behind her. She leaned against it for a moment, pondering the wisdom of sleeping under the same roof as that brash and arrogant man. His bedroom was just across the hall, and her door didn’t have a lock. Well, if he tried anything with her, he’d be sorry. Those three years of karate classes she’d taken in college would come in handy.
    As long as the day had been, and as tired as she was, Senna wasn’t ready for sleep. She stood in the middle of her grandfather’s room, surrounded by his personal belongings, and tried to feel some sort of connection. Strangely, none of his things reflected his lifelong naval career. There were several pieces of vintage carved scrimshaw atop his bureau, a stack of old books, including several regional histories of arctic exploration and the Hudson’s Bay Company, a harmonica that looked well used, a beautiful meerschaum pipe, several old buttons that appeared to have been carved out of bone in a pewter salt, a rifle propped behind the door, a box of excellent wildlife photographs, mostly of wolves and caribou, and a pair of well-worn mitts and matching mukluks made out of some kind of fur and hide and decorated with elaborate beadwork. Being surrounded by her grandfather’s things was like being in a museum.
    She touched each item, pondering the life of a man she hadn’t known at all, full of questions that could never be answered, and most of all, full of regrets. She was disappointed that she hadn’t yet stumbled across his journal. When she did, she hoped she would learn more about the enigma who was her grandfather, and why he had named her as his executor. At length she went to the window and looked out at the lake, its silken black waters reflecting the pale sliver of a new moon in a sky that wouldn’t know true darkness again until the far side of summer. The cove was as still as a mirror. She leanedher elbows on the windowsill and contemplated the vastness of the wilderness beyond the panes of glass, feeling a sudden pang of nostalgia for the two brief years she’d spent in the field as a wildlife biologist, fresh out of college and full of enthusiasm, truly believing she could make a difference.
    A day didn’t go by that she didn’t miss tramping through the Maine woods with a pair of binoculars and a notebook. She’d particularly enjoyed the time spent checking on the radio-collared female bears in their winter dens, gathering data and counting cubs. Bears and coyotes had become her favorite animals to observe, and ravens her favorite birds. The difference she had hoped to make in educating the public