A Kind of Grief Read Online Free

a knife thrust.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” It came out as a shout. “Who are you?”
    The question was angry or anguished; Joanne wasn’t certain. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare . . . to startle you.” She was stumbling over the words, in half a mind to run back down the mile and a half of track, jump into her car, and drive the three and a half hours home. Later, she could not decide who had been more frightened, herself or Alice Ramsay. But the dog was completely unperturbed.
    Alice’s innate good manners returned. “Who are you?” She straightened her back from her habitual slouch, a posture developed from years of leaning over a drawing board.
    Joanne saw a tall woman, perhaps in her late forties, and thin from what she guessed were hiking and climbing and working on the land. Her hair, brown with streaks of gold and grey, was escaping from the handkerchief holding it back from her face. And her skin, browned by weather, reminded Joanne of a polished hazelnut. But it was her eyes that made Joanne feel intimidated. They were sizing up her visitor, an aloof stare, an appraisal from an artist searching for the soul of a subject she might try to capture in oils or inks or with a few strokes of charcoal or pencil.
    â€œMiss Ramsay? I’m Joanne Ross. Actually, I’m Mrs. McAllister, I’m newly married, and . . .” She knew she was blethering, still recovering from the harsh reaction to her appearance in Miss Ramsay’s territory. “Ross is my professional name.” At the hardening of Alice Ramsay’s face, Joanne knew that had been the wrong thing to say.
    â€œI’m here—”
    â€œOut of nosiness.” Alice finished the sentence. “Sorry, Mrs. McAllister or Ross or whoever you are, I’m not interested.”
    Joanne lost her smile, though she kept her eyes on Alice, noticing they shared the same shade—that green with a hint of blue, depending on the weather, not uncommon in Highlanders.
    A few splatters of rain plopped loudly on the empty wheelbarrow. The wind swirled. The cold nibbled. Alice asked, “How did you get up here?”
    â€œI drove. Then climbed the gate.”
    â€œClimbed over the sign saying keep out.”
    Joanne flashed a smile. “Of course.”
    That did it. Alice looked again with her artist’s eye at her visitor’s face; she was a pushover for people with intelligent foreheads. She could see the woman was weary. And something else. Wounded, she decided. Her face betrayed her reluctance. Alice did not want a wounded soul to disrupt her life, be it a bird with broken wing, an orphan lamb, or a person with a history. But she acknowledged a hint of her younger self in Joanne and relented.
    â€œYou may as well come in and have a cup of tea before you go. But whatever it is you want, I’m not interested.”
    The Skye terrier, who had accompanied Joanne up from the five-bar gate, made a few circles around the rag rug on the floor in front of the Aga, then settled down to sleep.
    â€œSit,” Alice said, and pointed to a chair at the table.
    For a moment Joanne wasn’t certain if Miss Ramsay was addressing her or her dog.
    Then, saying nothing more, Alice filled the kettle, opened the stove lid, and began the ritual of coaxing the fire back to high. Satisfied the logs would catch, she washed her hands, attacking her nails with a brush, cleaning out the soil and the ash and a long day’s labor. All the while she still said nothing, only emitting small grunts as she rolled her shoulders, stretched her back, loosening the knots from much digging, much lifting, much bending.
    Joanne was not uncomfortable. The quiet between them felt right, a settling-down time, an observing time, two strangers interested yet wary of each other. She unwound her scarf and took off her beret, wishing she could also take off her shoes, which were decidedly damp. Then