A SHAKER round is a challenge because you have to fill in the spokes as you radiate outward. Also, the outer end of each log will dry quicker than the inner end, so the pile needs to dip toward the center. Sound easy? Try it sometime.

It takes me a while to adjust the diameter; but then I get into the swing of it, and the funny thing is that even though Floyd forced me into making the Shaker round, I forget about him while I’m working on it. In the end the pile looks cool, a hole down the middle for air circulation, logs stacked on top to make a little cone.

It doesn’t look like a haystack. More like a mini-fortress in the wilderness. If I had a Canadian flag, I’d stick it in the hole.

If Floyd had a sense of humor.

*

CASSIE AND I eat supper in the dining room, which is basically a jut off the kitchen. Same tiled floor—faded red and green squares in need of a good polish—along with a dark brown, claw-footed table that weighs a ton, and four chairs. We chow down on Singapore noodles with mixed vegetables, Cassie telling me how Pablo of The Backyardigans disguised himself as a ghost and terrified poor Uniqua.

She talks okay, for a little kid. Never said a word until she turned three then came out with whole sentences right away. She keeps this talent under wraps if Floyd’s around.

I’m at the kitchen counter loading the dishwasher when the Hummer pulls up. Floyd stays sitting in the cab, hunched over the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. Through the window I can see his fingers drumming on the wheel.

“Cassie,” I say, “go upstairs.”

I taught her this command after the nightscares began. She picks Rover up by one ear and scrambles up the stairs. The hinges squeal as her bedroom door shuts.

Cassie isn’t the problem in this house.

Floyd gets out of the Hummer and locks it. He never slams doors, but tonight it’s as though he’s being extra careful. I move away from the window, pretty sure he won’t bother to check the Shaker round.

His feet scrape on the steps, the mudroom floor creaks, then he opens the kitchen door and steps inside.

I’m five feet ten. He tops me by three inches.

He lays his laptop in its black leather case on the table. “Where’s Opal?”

“Out,” I say, clearing my throat. “She’ll be back later this evening. You had supper?”

He loosens his tie and tosses it on the table. “I lost a sale today,” he says. “My client went to Truro, got a better price. You think I should have gone lower?”

Fifty-fifty chance of the wrong answer. “No.”

He moves nearer. His eyes are the same color as mine, gray. No light in them.

Worst part is the waiting.