Nanowrimo2007: Prologue

Word count after the first day: 1760!

Excerpt from the prologue of The Language of Crows:

She made a fresh pot of green tea, absently tapping the corner of the envelope on the butcherblock countertop in the kitchen. She was patient and somewhat apprehensive. The return address was a law firm in Charleston, South Carolina and the thin envelope was addressed to Dr. Aveline Otis, a name she hadn’t used in years.

Tea steeped, she sat on the purple couch in the corner of the quilt studio and slit open the envelope with a seam ripper. The letter was short and she read it twice before she set it on the side table and took a sip from the delicate, porcelain teacup.

Biological grandmother. The words didn’t seem to find fertile ground in her mind. Your father’s birth mother. Elderly. Dying wish.

More tea. The salmon and eagle quilt lay forgotten on the studio’s large worktable, it’s bright colors less compelling in the harsh light of revelation.

What she knew of her father’s mother was an easy answer. Nothing. But what did she want to know, after all these years? After the question of who her father really was had driven him to the reckless behavior that had eventually cost him his life. After the search for answers to whispered questions had pushed that gentle man away from his wife and child and into the uneasy arms of abstract art and alcohol. But really, that was also an easy answer. She wanted to know everything.

Raven was pushing 45, unattached, childless. Far from a situation to be pitied, she loved the life she had built in the past few years. She had abandoned her medical career for these three acres on Moresby Island, a place of giant trees and prolific summer sunshine. Her golden retrievers kept her company and her quilts kept her busy. A mix of jeweled Amish colors, Haida iconography and sparkling, beaded embellishment that was uniquely hers, the quilts were gaining acclaim in both Canada and the United States. She made and sold enough of them to pay her modest expenses and build a comfortable nest egg, and was now toying with an offer to teach workshops at some of the enormous annual quilt shows around North America.

She washed her teacup and prepared a typical early summer meal of green salad and frittata. As she ate, she made a checklist of everything that would have to be done in the next few hours to prepare for her trip. She would need a sitter for the dogs, the chickens and the garden. The sugar snap peas, lettuce and garlic stalks were all coming in strong now and while she knew that this was a bad time to leave, she didn’t hesitate. The letter, open on the table in the sun-filled dining nook, was urgent. If she didn’t take this opportunity now, it was clear that there would not be another.