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There was only the splitting, the thunk of the maul into the chopping block, the klokking sound of pieces thrown on the pile . . . "Pizza's ready. My goodness, Sweetums, what a pile!" Oliver gathered up an armful. "Should hold us for awhile," he said. Woof bounded into the house, wagging her tail. "You know," Oliver said, "we really ought to get a decent wood stove. More efficient.
Oh well, I suppose it's for a good cause." "Right," Oliver said. "Emma." He scratched his head and drank more Chianti. "Money. What was that guy's name? The bank guy?" "Tom. I'll call Mary tomorrow and check it out." Oliver felt his insides contract. "Guess it can't hurt," he said. He folded the quilt. "Da Da," Emma said. "It's a quilt for you, Special One." "Sweetums, next weekend . . ." "Yes?"
"You and me next, little sweetums," suggested Peter, dropping down beside the doctor, who had seated himself, panting, upon a log. Alix, the dog's silky head under her hand, was resting against the prop formed by a great tree trunk behind her shoulders, and looking down at the two men. She grinned. "Nothingstirring, Puddeny-woodeny!" she answered, blandly.
Besides, Auntie never did have any use for this Mrs. Butt anyway and hardly speaks to her civil when she meets her. Now Auntie is squirmin' in her chair and I can guess how her fingers are itchin' to rescue the youngster. "Um precious 'ittle sweetums, ain't oo?" gurgles Mrs. Butt, rootin' him in the stomach with her nose. "Won't um let me tiss um's tweet 'ittle pinky winky toes?"
Speaking of snow, we're lucking out I shouldn't have any problem getting to Wayland." "How far is Wayland from Boston?" "Depends on what time it is half an hour, usually. I take 495 right around the city, no problem. Umm . . . Sweetums?" "Yes?" "I was wondering if you would do something for me. I know I'm being awful, but well it's that snakeskin. It gives me a chill when I look at it."
She loved a struggle of any description, had prepared for this one with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and had put on heavy shoes and her briefest skirt. "Come on, Sweetums," she added, to the dog, who had somehow wormed his way into the dining room, and was beating the floor with an obsequious tail.
"You worked so hard on the stove. You're tired. Poor Sweetums." "Mmmm," he said, nuzzling and hiding his face on her shoulder. "Sweetums sleep now." The storm dumped eight inches overnight, the first real snow of the winter. It was blustery and clearing when Oliver went outside in the morning. The Volvo was in the barn. Jennifer was staying home until the road was plowed.
Get it on, Oliver started to say, but didn't. "It was so nice to see all the children playing," Jennifer continued. "Wouldn't it be wonderful for Emma to have a little brother to play with?" She reached over and rubbed his leg. "Get on with it, you mean?" "Oh Sweetums! Of course not! Not like that. But it would be nice, wouldn't it?" She kept her hand on his leg. "Yes," Oliver said.
"But you're married." "Not for long, Sweetums. He can't wait to get rid of me and have his precious space back." Oliver thought of his apartment and felt a small pang. "It's not even his house; his parents let him have it when they moved to Hilton Head. Everything in it, practically, was theirs. I couldn't get rid of any of it. God, I hated those chairs." "My place is big enough," Oliver said.
Do something. He drove back to North Yarmouth. "I'm home!" "Hi, Sweetums. What's the matter? Here." Jennifer thrust Emma into his arms. "Watch Emma for a while, will you? I'm glad you came home early; I've got some things to do at The Conservancy. Oh, good!" She did not wait for an answer. "Tell me later bad day at work?" "Nah," Oliver said. "Never mind. How's Precious?" "Precious had a good nap.
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