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mush beneath her hiking boots.
Around the base of the cabin, yellow and white jonquils raised their bright faces to the spring sunlight, while at the base of the stalks, shoots of delicate green grasses poked through the melting snow.
Smiling at the harbingers of spring, Sandra mounted the stairs to the porch and strode to the front door, key at the ready. Unlocking the door, she turned the knob, pushed open the door, stepped inside, and came to an abrupt halt, a soft “Oh…” whispering through her parted lips.
The cabin was everything she had dared to hope for, and more. Barbara had warned that the place was rustic, and it was. And yet the decorativetouches—a flower-bedecked, deep-cushioned sofa and two matching chairs, sun yellow curtains, and a large rug braided in colors harmonizing with those in the furniture and the curtains—gave the place a snug, homey warmth, even though the still air inside felt at least ten degrees colder than the spring-washed air outside.
Sandra longed to investigate, but, deciding to deal with first things first, went directly to the thermostat to activate the heater, which, Barbara had assured her, had a full supply of fuel. Hearing the heater kick on, she turned and retraced her steps outside to collect her gear and the groceries she had purchased before leaving the city.
In all, four trips were required from the cabin to the vehicle, and Sandra was panting for breath by the time she set the last two bags of groceries on the butcher-block table in the small kitchen.
Whew! Was she getting old—or was she just terribly out of shape?
Pausing to catch her breath, she ran a slow, comprehensive look over the room. Her perusal banished consideration of encroaching age and deteriorating physical condition. A smile of satisfaction tilted her lips at what she observed.
Though small, the kitchen was compact, every inch of space wisely utilized, with fitted cabinets above and below the sink, and a small electric range and refrigerator. A full-size microwave oven wastucked into a corner of the countertop, and next to it sat the latest in automatic coffeemakers. A small, uncurtained window above the sink looked out over a smaller replica of the front porch, and the stately pines dotting the gentle incline of the foothills. A bottled-gas-fired grill stood on the wood-railed porch. Its domed lid wore a thin layer of snow.
Hmm. Sandra’s mouth watered as she envisioned the steaks she’d bought, sizzling to a perfect medium-rare on the grill. Thinking of the steaks brought awareness of place and time—and it was time to put the food away, unpack her cases and familiarize herself with the place that would be her home for several weeks.
But first, she could do with a cup of coffee.
Humming softly, she washed the glass pot, then dug out of a stuffed-full grocery bag one of the cans of French-roast coffee she had bought. While the aromatic stream of dark liquid trickled into the pot, she loaded perishable foods—meat, cheese, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables and fruits—into the fridge. Onto the bottom shelf she slid the two bottles of wine, one white, one red, that she had thought to pick up. The dried and canned articles went into the overhead cabinets.
When the foodstuffs were stashed away, Sandra poured coffee into a rainbow-decorated ceramic mug and carried it into the cabin’s single bedroom, where she had earlier dumped her suitcase andcarryon, and the shopping bag into which she had jammed sheets and towels.
Measuring approximately twelve feet by fourteen, the room was far from spacious. And yet the sparse furnishings, a double bed, a small nightstand and one standard-size chest of drawers, lent the illusion of roominess.
Another brightly colored braided rug covered most of the pine board floor. As in the living room, the colors in the rug were picked up in the bedspread and curtains at the room’s two windows, one of which faced the north side of the cabin, the other the
Around the base of the cabin, yellow and white jonquils raised their bright faces to the spring sunlight, while at the base of the stalks, shoots of delicate green grasses poked through the melting snow.
Smiling at the harbingers of spring, Sandra mounted the stairs to the porch and strode to the front door, key at the ready. Unlocking the door, she turned the knob, pushed open the door, stepped inside, and came to an abrupt halt, a soft “Oh…” whispering through her parted lips.
The cabin was everything she had dared to hope for, and more. Barbara had warned that the place was rustic, and it was. And yet the decorativetouches—a flower-bedecked, deep-cushioned sofa and two matching chairs, sun yellow curtains, and a large rug braided in colors harmonizing with those in the furniture and the curtains—gave the place a snug, homey warmth, even though the still air inside felt at least ten degrees colder than the spring-washed air outside.
Sandra longed to investigate, but, deciding to deal with first things first, went directly to the thermostat to activate the heater, which, Barbara had assured her, had a full supply of fuel. Hearing the heater kick on, she turned and retraced her steps outside to collect her gear and the groceries she had purchased before leaving the city.
In all, four trips were required from the cabin to the vehicle, and Sandra was panting for breath by the time she set the last two bags of groceries on the butcher-block table in the small kitchen.
Whew! Was she getting old—or was she just terribly out of shape?
Pausing to catch her breath, she ran a slow, comprehensive look over the room. Her perusal banished consideration of encroaching age and deteriorating physical condition. A smile of satisfaction tilted her lips at what she observed.
Though small, the kitchen was compact, every inch of space wisely utilized, with fitted cabinets above and below the sink, and a small electric range and refrigerator. A full-size microwave oven wastucked into a corner of the countertop, and next to it sat the latest in automatic coffeemakers. A small, uncurtained window above the sink looked out over a smaller replica of the front porch, and the stately pines dotting the gentle incline of the foothills. A bottled-gas-fired grill stood on the wood-railed porch. Its domed lid wore a thin layer of snow.
Hmm. Sandra’s mouth watered as she envisioned the steaks she’d bought, sizzling to a perfect medium-rare on the grill. Thinking of the steaks brought awareness of place and time—and it was time to put the food away, unpack her cases and familiarize herself with the place that would be her home for several weeks.
But first, she could do with a cup of coffee.
Humming softly, she washed the glass pot, then dug out of a stuffed-full grocery bag one of the cans of French-roast coffee she had bought. While the aromatic stream of dark liquid trickled into the pot, she loaded perishable foods—meat, cheese, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables and fruits—into the fridge. Onto the bottom shelf she slid the two bottles of wine, one white, one red, that she had thought to pick up. The dried and canned articles went into the overhead cabinets.
When the foodstuffs were stashed away, Sandra poured coffee into a rainbow-decorated ceramic mug and carried it into the cabin’s single bedroom, where she had earlier dumped her suitcase andcarryon, and the shopping bag into which she had jammed sheets and towels.
Measuring approximately twelve feet by fourteen, the room was far from spacious. And yet the sparse furnishings, a double bed, a small nightstand and one standard-size chest of drawers, lent the illusion of roominess.
Another brightly colored braided rug covered most of the pine board floor. As in the living room, the colors in the rug were picked up in the bedspread and curtains at the room’s two windows, one of which faced the north side of the cabin, the other the
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