"Per Erriksson." Responded a deep, musical voice. "Martha asked me to stop by."
Not getting an immediate answer from within, he continued, "You are Samantha Coley, aren’t you?"
Sam was instantly flooded with embarrassment. God, she’d totally forgotten that Martha had arranged for someone to drop by today to give her an estimate on painting the house. She hastily pulled the door open and stepped out onto the porch.
"Sorry," she exclaimed, "it had completely slipped my mind that you were coming this morning. I appreciate your taking the time."
Looking down at her with steady, dark gray eyes, Per was instantly mindful of her wariness. It was unmistakable, despite her attempt to disguise it. Somehow, he was certain that her reaction to his sudden arrival was based on something more than simply a healthy distrust of strangers. Per had no doubt that it went deeper than that.
"If this isn’t a good time for you, I can come back." He said softly.
"Oh, no," Sam stammered, " this is fine, really. Let me show you around."
She led the way down the porch steps onto the still brown lawn and walked with him around the house and attached barn. Ten minutes later, back where they had begun the tour, Sam asked politely, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"That would be great." Smiled Per, pulling a pencil and small pad out of his jacket. "If it’s okay with you, I’ll just sit here and do dome figuring."
Gingerly, he sat down on a wicker chair. Instinctively, he knew that she didn’t want him to follow her into the house.
Relieved, Sam went inside, down the foyer to the kitchen in the back. While she gathered the makings for coffee, she tried to calm her jangled nerves.
Primarily, she was irritated. For Christ’s sake, she silently berated herself, people are bound to show up once in awhile. What are you going to do? Go through the rest of your life getting sick with fear overtime you run across a complete stranger?
But even as she admonished herself, Sam knew there was more to her irritation besides the sudden appearance of her visitor. Damn. He was very attractive with his deep gray eyes and lyrical (was it Scandinavian?) accent. Martha hadn’t bothered to mention those features when she’d spoken about him.
Ok, Ok, she thought in annoyance, tossing a handful of oatmeal cookies onto the plate despite herself. Just give him his coffee, tell him you’ve decided the house doesn’t need painting after all, and he’ll go away. Squaring off her shoulders, Sam carried the laden tray out to the porch.
Hurrying to his feet when he saw her coming, Per helpfully opened the screen door. Smiling somewhat self-consciously, Sam placed the tray down upon a small wicker table set between two chairs. As she bent forward, Per had a clear, unobstructed view into her protruding sweater pocket.
"Help yourself," she said, glancing up at him. Frowning slightly, Per sat back down and reached for a mug, concentrating on stirring in the sugar and creamer.
"Do you ..... ?"
"Will ..... ?"
Laughing, they both waited for the other to start speaking again.
"You know," Sam began, "as we were looking at the house, I was thinking it really doesn’t look so bad. Perhaps it could go another year before I bother to paint." She finished hopefully.
"I suppose you could put it off," nodded Per agreeably, "but it would make the job that much harder and expensive the following year if you decide to do that."
This certainly wasn’t going the way she’d planned. But, before she could think of a more tactful way of putting things off, Per spoke.
"Martha said that you had lived in Boston for the past fifteen years or so."
Sam nodded, wondering just what else Martha had said.
"That’s a nice town," he continued, "I’ve been there in my travels. Overall, I remember the residents of Boston as being rather friendly. I can’t say that the rest of your country’s cities are all that way." He finished wryly.
Curious now, Sam looked at him sprawled out before her in old, faded Levis; a blue work shirt; badly scuffed boots, and a beat up leather jacket. She couldn’t help but notice how his sandy hair curled slightly around the upturned collar.
Aware of her scrutiny, Per smiled broadly, showing splendid white teeth.
"You are Scandinavian?"
Per nodded in agreement. "Norwegian, actually." He said. "I have been in your country for a few years now. Just traveling about, seeing the sights, as they say." He paused, "That’s how I ended up here. I liked it, so I stayed.."
Sam was more than a little intrigued. "Why do you stay here?" She asked. "What appeals to you about Swans Island?"
"Probably the same things that makes anyone move to an isolated location." He replied quietly, catching and holding her eyes with his own. "The need to be alone. To have abundant space around you. The desire to test yourself. And, of course, the appeal of feeling safe that such a lonely spot as this island can give you."
Per remained silent for a moment, then he finished his thought. "Some people, when picking a place such as this, are running to something while others are really running away from something."
Sensing that his line of talk was making Sam uncomfortable, Per rapidly changed the subject.
"Now, How about letting me start on your place first thing Monday morning? It needs some scraping, but it shouldn’t take longer then a couple of weeks to finish. Besides, my partner and I need the work." Per smiled as he leaned back in the chair, waiting for her reply.
Without fully understanding why, Sam capitulated, agreeing on Monday. The issue resolved, he stood up to leave. However, just as he reached the top of the porch steps, he turned to give Sam one last, long pondering look as she waited for him to go with her hands shoved deeply into her sweater pockets.
"Be careful not to shoot yourself in the foot with that thing." He said gently.
Quickly, he descended, climbed into the battered bus and, painfully grinding gears all the way, was gone down the drive.
Chapter 6
Wanda Kneeland had been having the same dream for three nights in a row now. As a full - blooded Pa’nawampske’wi-ak, or Penobscot, she knew enough to pay attention. Proudly, Wanda could trace her ancestry back to the great chief Madockawando who had lived and fought in the Penobscot region of Maine in the mid sixteen hundreds. One of Madockawando’s daughters had married the French adventurer, Jean-Vincent d’Abbadie de St. Castin, according to both Abenaki custom and Catholic Church. From this union came a son and a daughter. It was with a great deal of pride that Wanda could mark her lineage that far back. So, when her heritage spoke, she listened.
"Company’s coming."
William glanced up from his newspaper to peer out the kitchen window.
"I don’t see anyone, Nana." Shrugging, he returned to the sports section. "The Red Sox couldn’t take one in a Little League Game ..." He muttered in disgust.
Wanda’s chair began to rock vigorously. "He’s coming." She stated stubbornly.
William folded the Bar Harbor Times on top of the kitchen table’s cracked linoleum and walked over to his grandmother.
"The only one who’d better be getting here right off is Per. We’re late this morning. Did I tell you we were going to start painting Martha’s friend’s old house today?" Bending down, he gave her a kiss on her weathered cheek. "See you tonight, Nana." He said as he heard the old bus chugging into the driveway.
Long after William had gone, his grandmother continued to rock steadily back and forth in her chair.
"Company’s coming today." She said, smiling to herself.
"Make yourself at home," Wanda Kneeland said, moving her rheumatoid filled body as quickly as she possibly could to grab a pile of Reader’s Digests off the worn couch. "Don’t get much company anymore," she said vaguely, looking around her living room as if she’d never seen it before.
"Grandmother, do you know me?" Asked the tall man quietly.