OCR Text |
Show 208 Blue Nun." "I can't wait," Leah said. They said goodbye. Hunt went into the dining room to wait breakfast for Sean and his father. He ordered coffee. Leah was alive! Something on the edge of power and fullness in her had made its move to center. Her power, her humor eminated with such an astounding confidence. God, her words over the phone had been like a drum roll! Hunt smiled. Then stopped. Leah was free of worry about him - wasn't she. But was she free of need for him, then, too? New ideas; new friends. New arenas for her particular talents, own events. And Sean was an Eastern livewire. And now Todd was a cowboy. And his father was in his declining years. ... And Hunt was on the roof at dawn in his trunks, on the wrong side of a backboard, hands touching the warm tar-smelling leather of a basketball. Would Hunt ever paint again -- when he couldn't even see connected lines of any new kind of sketch on the stretched and bleached canvas of-his skull? Hunt's father requested a morning alone on the porch of Lake Lodge, reading. "Henry Miller again?" Hunt smiled. His father didn't. "Barbara Tuchman," he said. "History." Hunt and Sean drove again to Sand Point. Sean announced that every day they were there he was going to catch his limit of trout. "Does Grampa seem old to you?" Hunt asked his son. "What do you mean?" |