“No, I'm not. Not really.” Laurel forced a smile. How stupid. Of course you're tense. He can feel it. She loosened her hold on his hand and let her arm go slightly limp.
Adam smiled and his eyes warmed. Laurel liked his eyes—deep blue and passionate. He seldom let anyone see his tender side, but Laurel had seen it.
“I'll be leaving in the morning.”
She stiffened again. “Leaving? So soon?”
“I have to get back to work. I've been stalling.”
“Oh.” Laurel felt her mood whither. “I hope you have a good trip back—no more rough seas.”
“I'll be flying,” he chuckled, “We had quite a trip up, didn't we?”
“Yes. It's hard to believe the months have gone so quickly.” Laurel didn't want him to leave, but she couldn't tell him. “So, what will you do in Chicago?”
“Oh, just the usual—write local news. Hopefully they'll send me to Europe soon.”
“Europe. It's so far away.”
“You sound sad.”
“I do? I guess I'm just tired.” Laurel wasn't lying. She did feel tired. She wanted to go home to her room where she could close the door, turn out the light, and forget she'd ever met Adam Dunnavant.
“I'll probably be back next fall to finish the story. I talked with my editor, and he thinks it would be a good idea to finish it off with the colony's first big harvest.” He scanned the room. “I'll miss this place, the people.” His eyes settled on Laurel.
She thought they held a tinge of sadness. “I hope I'll see you then.”
“You will.”
The music ended, but Adam didn't release Laurel immediately. Slowly, he relaxed his arms but held onto her hand. “I'm going to miss you. Will you write?”
“If you give me your address.”
“I left it at the post office.”
“OK. Then I'll write. Will you?”
“Yes.”
She could feel the pressure of his hand on hers and didn't want to let go.
Adam bent and rested his cheek against her hair. “I wish I could stay,” he whispered, then brushed Laurel's forehead with his lips. “Goodbye.” He turned and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LAUREL STUDIED THE NOTES IN FRONT OF HER. THEY WERE HARDER TO decipher than she'd expected. Transcribing would come later. For now Laurel had the task of sorting Steward's observations, which was difficult enough. “Are those the notes on the Athabascans?”
“Yes.”
Laurel placed the folder with the others and returned to sorting. There were notes on native Alaskans, wildlife, plants, animals, topography, history, and more. When she'd accepted the position from Jessie, she had no idea the mountain of work that awaited her. There were hundreds of papers to be organized and cataloged. Every wall, including two bedroom walls, was crowded with books and notes. The notes in the bedroom had been forgotten when they'd evacuated Jessie. Thank goodness the water didn't reach them, Laurel thought.
She scanned the room. The papers had lain untouched for years. Disturbing the mounds of records had raised a dust cloud; a musty smell still hung in the air from the water that had creeped inside during the flood. Laurel wished it wasn't so cold so the windows could be opened to allow in fresh air. She watched her new friend lower herself onto the wooden chair in front of the oak desk. “Jessie, how did your husband get all this information?”
Her plain but serene face brightened with a smile. She hadn't bothered to put up her hair. Parted in the middle, it hung straight down on both sides, gray strands hanging in disarray. On Jessie, the wrinkles and silvery hair looked appealing and appropriate.
“Steward spent the better part of his life discovering Alaska. He loved research—not the kind you get in books, but the kind that requires leg work. He was devoted to it. When the college asked him to do this, he jumped at the chance.”
She rifled through a stack in front of her and shook her head. “It's just a pity he didn't also relish organizing it.” Gazing at the papers in front of her, she continued, “He expected me to do the sorting out, but I traveled with him most of the time; plus I had my painting to do. I just never seemed to have the time.”
Her eyes took on a faraway look. “We traveled all through the state, even out on the Aleutians and way up north to Barrow. Steward talked to folks, researched history records in church archives, libraries, and even searched through people's attics. On occasion he visited graveyards. Sometimes it wasn't easy to convince the natives to share their traditions and family stories, but Steward had a way about him. He'd wait patiently, make friends, and gradually build a person's trust.” She smiled. “He made a lot of friends.”
“It sounds interesting and exciting. I'd love to do something like that.”
“It had its moments. We experienced discovery and danger. Some of our ocean excursions were challenging. It wasn't good enough for Steward to study a baidarka; he had to travel in one.”
“What's a baidarka?”
“It's a long, narrow boat with two round seats cut in midway, and it's propelled by a paddle. The traveler has to lower himself through the holes and sit with his legs straight out in front of him. It's not very comfortable.”
“Oh.”
Jessie grinned. “Steward studied the bears too. We had more than one close encounter while he was trying to establish true bear behavior. He always believed they'd been unfairly judged, so we spent a lot of time with them. For the most part, they didn't want trouble, but we did meet up with a few bad tempers.” She chuckled. “I discovered I could climb a tree faster than I ever imagined.”
Jessie stood. Balancing a stack of papers, she carried them to a shelf and set them beside another pile. “When we started this work, we had no idea how big the project was. It was like an endless treasure hunt. One thing led to another.”
Her eyes rested on an oil painting of a field of wildflowers. “We tried to photograph the flowers and plants, but we couldn't record the colors. That's when I started painting.” Her expression softened. “Those were truly glorious days. I remember sitting among God's creation on sunlit mornings, trying to duplicate on canvas what he'd crafted with his own hands. I could never do them justice. Each flower is exceptional and distinctive. God's paintbrush is far superior to mine.”
“Your paintings are beautiful,” Laurel said.
