"Are you Sharon MacGillivray?" he asked a young woman who was arranging displays. "I'm Jim Qwilleran." "Oh, I'm so glad to meet you! I'm Sharon Hanstable," she said, "but I'm married to Roger MacGillivray. I've heard so much about you." "I like the name of your shop." He thought a moment and then declaimed: " 'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain. " "You're fabulous! No one else has ever noticed that it's a quote." "Maybe fishermen don't read Shakespeare. How do they feel about scented candles?" Sharon laughed. "Fortunately we get all kinds of tourists up here, and I carry some jewelry and woodenware and toys as well as candles." Qwilleran browsed through the narrow aisles of the little shop, his sensitive nose almost overcome by the thirty-seven scents. He said: "Roger has a good-looking money clip. Do you have any more of them?" "Sorry, they're all gone. People bought them for Father's Day, but I've placed another order." "How much for the tall wooden candlesticks?" "Twenty dollars. They're made locally by a retired policeman, and every penny goes to charity. It was my mother's idea." "I met your mother on the beach yesterday. She's very likable." Sharon nodded. "Everyone likes Mom, even her students. She teaches in Pickax, you know. We're all teachers, except Dad. He runs the turkey farm on Pickax Road." "I've seen it. Interesting place." "Not really." Sharon wrinkled her nose in distaste. "It's smelly and messy. I took care of the poults when I was in high school, and they're so dumb! You have to teach domesticated turkeys how to eat and drink. Then they go crazy and kill each other. You have to be a little crazy yourself to raise turkeys. Mom can't stand them. Has she offered to tell your fortune?" "Not yet," Qwilleran said, "but I've got a few questions I'd like her to answer. And I've got one for you: Where can I find a locksmith?" "I never heard of a locksmith in Mooseville, but the garage mechanic might be able to help you." He left the store with a two-foot candlestick and a stubby green candle and drove home inhaling deep draughts of pine scent. When he placed the candlestick on a porch table, Koko sniffed every inch of it. Yum Yum was more interested in catching spiders, but Koko's nose was virtually glued to the raw wood as he explored all its shapely turnings.
His ears were swept backward, and occasionally he sneezed.
It was mid-afternoon when the blue pickup truck snaked up the driveway. Tom was alone in the cab.
"Where's the log-splitter?" Qwilleran asked cheerily.
"In the back of the truck," Tom said with his mild expression of pleasure. "I like to split logs with a maul, but this is a big tree. A very big tree." He gazed out at the lake. "It's a very nice day. The fog went away. I don't like fog." The log-splitter proved to be a gasoline-powered contraption with a murderous wedge that rammed the foot-thick logs to produce firewood. Qwilleran watched for a while, but the noise made him jittery and he retreated to the cabin to brush the cats' fur. Their grooming had been neglected for a week.
At the cry of "Brush!" Koko strolled from the lake porch where he had been watching the wildlife, and Yum Yum squirmed out from under the sofa where she had been driven by the racket in the yard. Then followed a seductive pas de deux as the two cats twisted, stretched, writhed, and slithered ecstatically under the brush.
When Tom had finished splitting the wood, Qwilleran went out to help stack it. "So you don't like heavy fog," he said as an opener.
"No, it's hard to see in the fog." Tom said. "It's dangerous to drive a car or a truck. Yes, very dangerous. I don't drive very much in the fog. I don't want to have an accident. A man in Pickax was killed in an accident. He was driving in the fog." Tom's speech was slow and pleasant, with a musical lilt that was soothing. Today there was something different about his face — a three-day growth on his upper lip.
Qwilleran recognized the first symptom of a moustache and smiled. Searching for something to say he remarked about the quality of sand surrounding the cabin — so fine, so clean.
"There's gold in the sand," Tom said.
"Yes, it sparkles like gold, doesn't it?" "There's real gold," Tom insisted. "I heard a man say it. He said there's a gold mine buried under this cabin. I wish this was my cabin. I'd dig up the gold." Qwilleran started to explain the real-estate metaphor but thought better of it.
Instead he said: "I often see people picking up pebbles on the beach. I wonder what they're looking for." "There isn't any gold on the beach," Tom said. "Only agates. The agates are pretty. I found some agates." "What do they look like?" "They look like little stones, but they're pretty. I sold them to a man in a restaurant. He gave me five dollars." They worked in silence for a while. The tall tree had produced a huge amount of firewood, and Qwilleran was puffing with the exertion of stacking it. The handyman worked fast and efficiently and put him to shame.
After a few minutes Tom said: "I wish I had a lot of money." "What would you do with it?" "I'd go to Las Vegas. It's very pretty. It's not like here." "Very true," Qwilleran said. "Have you ever been there?" "No. I saw it on TV. They have lights and music and lots of people. So many people! I like nightclubs." "Would you want to work in a nightclub if you went to Las Vegas?" "No," Tom said thoughtfully. "I'd like to buy a nightclub. I'd like to be the boss." After Tom had raked up the wood chips, Qwilleran invited him in for a beer. "Or would you rather have a shot? I've got some whiskey." "I like beer," Tom said.
They sat on the back porch with their cold drinks. Koko was entranced by the man's soothing voice, and even Yum Yum made one of her rare appearances.
"I like cats," the handyman said. "They're pretty." Suddenly he looked embarrassed.
"What's the matter, Tom?" "She told me to come up here and look at the telephone, That's why I came. You told me not to come. I didn't know what to do." "That's perfectly all right," Qwilleran said. "You did the right thing." "I always do what she tells me." "You're a loyal employee, Tom, and a good worker. You can be proud of your work." "I came up here to look at the telephone, and the big cat came out and talked to me." "That's Koko. I hope he was polite." "Yes, he was very polite." Tom stood up and looked at the sky. "It's time to go home." "Here," Qwilleran said, offering him a folded bill. "Buy yourself some supper on the way home." "I have my supper money. She gave me my supper money." "That's all right. Buy two suppers. You like pasties, don't you?" "Yes, I like pasties. I like pasties very much. They're good." Qwilleran felt saddened and uneasy after the handyman's visit. He heated a can of Scotch broth and consumed it without tasting it. He was in no condition to start writing his novel, and he was relieved when another visitor arrived — this time from the beach.
Buck Dunfield, wearing a skipper's cap, climbed up the dune in the awkward way dictated by loose sand on a steep slope. "You promised me a drink," he called out, "and I'm collecting now while I'm still a bachelor, My wife gets home tomorrow. How's it going?" "Fine. Come in on the porch." "I brought you something, Just found it." He handed Qwilleran a pebble. "It was on your beach, so it's yours. An agate!" "Thanks, I've heard about these. Are they valuable?" "Well, some people use them to make jewelry. Everybody collects them around here. I brought you something else." Buck drew a foil package from his jacket pocket. "Meatloaf — from Mildred. Her husband never showed up last night." In a lower voice he added: "Just between you and me, she's better off without him." They settled down in canvas chairs on the porch, with a broadside view of the placid lake. Buck said: "Let me give you a tip. If you use this porch much, remember that voices carry across the lake when the atmosphere is still. You'll see a fishing boat out there about half a mile, and you'll hear a guy say 'Hand me another beer' just as clear as on the telephone. But don't forget: He can hear you, too." There were several boats within sight on the silvery lake, which blended into a colorless sky. The boats seemed suspended in air.