Free Two Weeks in August by Nat Burns

said, “Hang on a minute then. I’ll get the tools.”
    She paused, clearly wondering whether to invite Nina in. Pushing the wooden door wider, she left the screen door closed, saying, “Step in while you wait if you’ve a mind to,” and disappeared into the back.
    Nina’s curiosity won out over her timidity and she opened the screen door and stepped inside. And gaped like a toddler seeing snow for the first time.
    Shelves, nicely made to fit, covered every inch of wall space and there were freestanding bookcases in those places where wall-hung shelves were impractical. Each shelf was crowded with books, a few shelves here and there displayed driftwood and bare shelving instead but they were very few when compared to the book-filled ones.
    Now, who would have thought Hazy would be a reader? Nina shook her head. It had to be her partner.
    The rest of the cottage was littered with haphazardly dropped toys, but was basically neat and spartan—a battered but comfortable looking sofa and armchair, a coffee table crafted from driftwood and pine, a lamp, and toward the back, a cramped but tidy kitchen with a small TV on the counter. There was no table, only a bar which was currently littered with Barbie dolls and their wardrobes, and two stools on the living room side. A door at the far end of the living area was closed and Nina reminded herself to move quietly and not wake Hazy’s partner and little girl.
    At a sudden scratching sound Nina whirled to face the unknown. It was an old fashioned stereo turntable over to her left. Hazy must have only turned down the volume when Nina knocked instead of taking the needle off the album. Now the vinyl album was finished and the needle was scraping against the center paper.
    She quickly stepped over a doll and a stuffed horse to place the needle arm back into its holder. Vinyl records? She couldn’t help but notice what Hazy had been listening to—flautist James Galway’s Melodies from Japan . She recoiled a bit in surprise. This could not be the same woman who took a shark bite out of her emotions each time their paths crossed.
      “Well, here I am. I’d left them out back by the—” Hazy came in through the kitchen, saw where Nina was standing and broke off abruptly.
    “Do you read?” Nina breathed without thinking. Eyes wide with wonder, she studied Hazy. “I can’t believe you read.”
    Hazy scowled. “They do teach it in school, you know, even here on this backwater island.”
    Nina blushed crimson and fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. “I-I’m sorry. I only meant...a lot of people dislike reading in this TV age. I just assumed you were the majority and didn’t care for reading. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”
    Her heartfelt apology seemed to touch Hazy. “’S’okay, ducks. Let’s get that water off before the pump gives out.” She held open the screen door and ushered Nina through it.
    “Who’s your favorite author?” Nina asked as they crossed the drive. A sudden wind blew across, spattering them with sea foam.
      “Don’t really have one,” Hazy replied quietly. “I like different things about different writers. Bradbury’s poetic style appeals but I like Michener’s detail as well. I just read whichever I’m in a mood for. How about you?” She turned to glance at Nina’s profile.
      “I’m pretty much the same, I suppose, although I can never seem to turn down a Stephen King or a Fredric Brown.”
    They arrived at her cottage and Hazy actually held the door open for Nina as she entered. “I suppose they’re all right if you like seeing the sordid side of things close up. I do particularly remember a Brown story, the one about the giants that invaded and started spraying clouds of stuff. Insecticide , was the name, wasn’t it?”
    Nina frowned as she concentrated. “I believe it was Pattern . I remember it but never thought it was one of his better works. I’ll have to let you borrow an anthology I have of his good stuff after I