Читать книгу Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Jeffrey Round - Страница 12

They were surrounded by mist. The monochromatic outline of trees and barns drifted by like ghosts on either side of the road. Rain had dogged them all the way from Toronto, only now giving way to something finer, a damp chill that got right inside their clothing. Passing cars fanned plumy sprays across the windshield, making the wipers do double time.

“How much farther?” Bill said, staring out at the passing landscape.

“Not much.”

They were in Bill’s car. Dan drove, despite a hangover. He’d barely made it through the morning at work. When Bill arrived to pick him up, he tossed his canvas bag into the trunk alongside Bill’s leather ones, climbed into the driver’s seat, and headed for the Don Valley Parkway. An hour out of Toronto, they left the 401 to join the stretch of coastal highway running south through Hillier and Bloomfield and on to Picton. The mist thinned momentarily as a forlorn strip of trees appeared on their right, water in front and behind it like a film backdrop, one-dimensional, floating in the middle of a never-ending lake.

“This is boring,” Bill declared. “Where are we?”

“We’re in Prince Edward County on the Loyalist Parkway,” Dan said. “It’s a considerable bit of Canadian history.”

“Do people actually live out here?”

Dan glanced over. “Not everyone wants to live in Forest Hill.”

Bill was looking worn. He had the beginnings of a bald patch, shadows beneath his eyes, and a paunch he self-consciously sucked in. Still, he had an undeniable charm, like a jock dad gone to seed. Despite his impatience and shifting moods, there was a boyish eagerness about him that held Dan. Even Bill’s casual cruelties — like when he ignored Dan’s calls for days — only sank the hook in deeper.

Other than an ecstasy habit and a fondness for dancing in dimly lit after-hours clubs, there was nothing noticeably gay about Bill. Dan suspected he was making up for a missed adolescence. He seemed overly fond of the kind of clubs where you climbed into darkened rooms via fire escapes or sat on rooftops while thrash music blared and incomprehensible films were projected on the walls of neighbouring buildings. Once, he brought them to a party that got shut down by axe-wielding police as guests escaped down back alleys or onto neighbouring balconies. Another had featured a live sex show. Dan watched as a black substance was poured over the participants, becoming more and more of an adherent as the bodies, both male and female, grappled and copulated in various permutations on a makeshift stage. Still, it was nothing as artful as a good porn flick, Dan thought as he went off to get a beer.

Bill twiddled with the FM dial as the mist closed over the shoreline again. Sounds faded in and out, white noise, the burps and farts of radio emissions. A ragged voice shot through for a second then disappeared in a snarl of static.

“Hey — that’s Shaggy!” Bill exclaimed. “I love Shaggy.” His hands twisted frantically. “Gone,” he announced mournfully, as though Shaggy had vanished forever.

“We’ll find you another one,” Dan said. “You want Shaggy, we’ll get you Shaggy.”

“I love all kinds of music,” Bill said in a proprietary way.

Bill was proprietary about many things. His taste in clothes always seemed an advertisement for the latest trends, coming straight out of one catalogue or another — J.Crew, Harley-Davidson, Hugo Boss. He always had the newest CDs and DVDs. Style filled his cupboards — he could well afford it. It was Donny who’d pointed out Bill’s pretensions as they left his rooftop patio one evening after a catered meal and some pricey wine shared by a gathering of Bill’s overly loud, fawning friends.

“Ghetto fags,” Donny sniffed. “I’ve never seen them north of Bloor before.”

He was working out an irritation. There’d be no stopping him till he was done.

“Nice place, though,” Dan said.

“That man thinks he invented ‘cool,’” Donny said. “Did you catch the reference to ‘Coal Train’?”

Dan shook his head.

Donny rocked with barely suppressed laughter. “When Roger asked what music was playing, Bill said it was ‘Coal Train’ by the Africa Brass.” Donny looked at him. “Ring any bells?”

“Not really.” Dan shook his head. “Wait! Not John Coltrane? Surely not!”

Donny rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yes! It was Coltrane’s Africa Brass Sessions. He hadn’t a clue what it was. The pretentious twat!”

“Hey! That’s not fair — Bill’s a brilliant surgeon. He can’t know everything.”

Donny made a face. “Oh, right! Excuse me whilst I slag your current amour, since you don’t have the good sense to do it yourself.”

At the time, Dan hadn’t expected Bill to last beyond the summer, but here they were a year later driving Bill’s car along the Loyalist Parkway. Picton swept past, a colonial town in miniature. Ten minutes later the highway came to an end, turning abruptly down to the Bay of Quinte. Apart from the brewery and a former gristmill that housed the current Ministry of Natural Resources, there was little to see.

“What’s this place?” Bill grumbled.

“This is the Glenora ferry crossing. John A. Macdonald used to live here.”

“Who?”

“Our first prime minister? Sir John A. Macdonald?”

“Oh, him.” Bill grunted.

“You know, sometimes you worry me,” Dan said.

“I’m distracted,” Bill snarled. “I didn’t sleep much.”

Dan reached over and squeezed his knee. “I was kidding. Don’t worry.”

“I work hard, you know,” Bill said petulantly. “Thom better have champagne waiting for us when we get there.”

They joined the line of vehicles waiting to be transported across the tenuous link connecting the two counties. Bill craned his head to make out the far shore. It was draped in fog. “This place is eerie.”

“But beautiful,” Dan said. “I like the feeling of isolation….”

“I don’t. It creeps me out. I don’t like to be this far from the city.”

Dan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you the one who always wants to go camping?”

Bill snorted. “Sure — as long as I get to sleep in a five-star hotel.”

The line-up advanced, braking and inching forward again in little shimmy movements. The gate swung closed on a full load and the boat surged into the bay. Fifteen minutes later they rolled onto the opposite shore. The fog was denser, hanging in soft folds in the trees. Dan drove slowly, alert for road signs and wary of oncoming cars shooting out of the grey gauze in an anxious rush to catch the return ferry. He skidded past the arrow pointing down a country road, then reversed and headed for the north shore.

The house was visible from a distance where it sat framed by pines. Once the mist cleared, it promised a breathtaking view of the bay. A whimsical third-floor tower with curved glass windows and a wrap-around porch softened the otherwise sober exterior. Red creeper curled over grey stone. Flowerbeds surrounded the drive in fizzy, mist-muted bands of yellow and a late-season patch of bright azure blue. Dan turned up the cobblestone half-circle. The house seemed to be watching them. Its windows winked in and out of the fog.

“Leave the car here,” Bill commanded, craning his head to look at the upper stories.

“I can’t leave it in the middle of the driveway.”

“Don’t worry about it. Park it over there, then.” He waved to the side.

Dan hefted their bags from the trunk and turned to find Bill staring at him. “What? Am I dressed wrong for this set?” he joked, glancing down at his plaid jacket, navy T and khaki pants.

“Thom’s going to love you,” Bill said apprehensively.

“What? How do you mean?”

Bill gave him a pained look. “I know Thom’s type. And you’re essentially it. I just hope he doesn’t try to steal you from me.”

Dan made a face. “I thought he was getting married this weekend.”

“That wouldn’t stop Thom.”

“Well, I’ll stop him if he tries. I’m here with you.”

“You don’t know Thom,” Bill said. “Besides, the rich make their own rules.”

“You’re rich, aren’t you?”

“Not that rich.”

A knocker resounded deep inside, as though the house went on for miles. After a few seconds, Bill grabbed the handle. The door opened onto a panelled foyer bright with flowers. A note awaited them on the hall table.

Welcome Billy and Daniel!

Your love nest is the first room on the left up the stairs. Make yourselves at home. (Food, drink, pool boys, etc.)

Seb and I will be back around 2.

XO Thom.

It was well past two now. Dan followed Bill up the stairs. Their room had an en suite bath and a fireplace. He set their bags down and looked around. A bay window overlooked a green swath that disappeared in mist before it reached the water. Dan walked over to the mantle and picked up a framed photo of a young man in a rowing scull. Big smile, bigger arms. The blond, blue-eyed looks of a matinee idol. Pretty enough for daytime soaps, though possibly not serious enough for prime time.

“That’s Thom,” Bill said, almost reluctantly.

“He’s rich and good looking?” Dan exclaimed. “How unfair!”

“He was an Olympic rower the year the team won a silver medal. Thom’s got it all,” Bill said with what sounded like disdain. “In fact, he’s even better looking in person.”

Dan thought it over. It wasn’t disdain; it was resentment. He heard it clearly now.

Bill pulled a rose from a bud vase, sniffed it, then laid it aside on the runner. “Come on,” he said, turning. “I want a shower.”

In the bathroom, Bill yanked at Dan’s T-shirt, then left off to unzip his fly. Fingers snaked inside his pants. “You have the most perfect cock.”

Dan slipped off his trousers and stepped into the shower. Bill knelt and looked up at him through the stream. “Who am I?” he demanded.

“You’re a dirty little hitchhiker I picked up on the Trans-Canada,” Dan said. This was Bill’s game, though for the most part Dan went along with it. “Who am I?”

“You’re a big sweaty trucker and you’re taking me to a place off the highway to make me suck your big dick.”

Dan ran a hand through Bill’s hair.

“Oh yeah!” Bill exclaimed. “Hit me … slap me around.”

Dan tapped Bill gently on the cheek.

“Harder!”

Dan gave his hair a tug. “I told you — I don’t mind make-believe, but I won’t hit you for real.”

Bill leered up through the pouring water. “What if I deserve it?”

“Then you’ll have to find someone else to give you what you deserve.”

“What if I told you I already have?”

Dan felt himself stiffen.

“You like the thought of someone else fucking me, don’t you? It turns you on.”

“Shut up,” Dan said.

“Yeah! Call me names. Tell me what to do!”

Dan thrust until he heard Bill gag. He felt slightly used, the unwilling participant in a porn video aware the camera is on him but closing his eyes and thinking of the money he needs to buy medication for his infant son.

Bill milked him until he stopped throbbing. “Sweet! You are so fucking hot!”

“And you are a very bad doctor,” Dan said. He towelled off and returned to the bedroom to dress.

Bill followed him. “Got you going there, didn’t I? It gets you hot to think about me getting off with other guys, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” Dan said, adjusting his shirt.

Bill stood beside him. He turned and regarded his reflection with a frown. “I’m getting fat.”

Dan wrapped his arms around Bill from behind. “More to love?”

Bill reached behind, impatiently tugging at Dan’s zipper again. “More,” he commanded.

“Later,” Dan said, doing up his fly. “We have to be downstairs to meet your friends” — he checked his watch — “forty minutes ago.”

Bill made a disapproving face. “Friend,” he corrected. “I’ve never even met this other guy.” He stood. “All right, then. Mr. and Mrs. Thom Killingworth await.”

A picture window gave way onto an unbroken view of the harbour. Idyllic, grand. For a moment, the sun broke through the clouds like a promise of better things to come. The light reflecting on the waves lent the room a solemn stillness, mysterious and exotic, like something hidden in plain view, all the more startling when you finally notice it.

Bill looked around the empty room and shrugged. “Told you,” he said. “There was plenty of time. We could have done it again.”

Oil paintings hugged the walls. Even someone unversed in art would know it for a serious collection. The intricate filigrees and whorls of the frames spoke of cultured tastes and leisurely times when the art of woodcarving was a commonplace but necessary attribute. Still lifes predominated — apples and pears in bowls, flowers in vases, slabs of butter, and loaves of bread on tables. There were also landscapes — glowering forests, rugged mountains, stormy lakes, and open-throated skies — in cartoon-dreamy colours. There were no portraits. Impressionism favoured the inanimate.

“Thom’s a collector,” Bill said, looking them over as though considering a purchase. “What do you think this room is worth?”

Dan glanced over the walls. “I have no idea. I don’t know much about art, except that it’s usually bought by rich collectors for a lot of money after the artists are dead.”

He recalled the impressive jade tiger dominating Bill’s living room. On their second date, Bill had tossed a silk shirt over it as though it were a hitching post. The garment sizzled and slipped to the floor. Bill had left it lying there as he went for Dan’s belt.

“Do you know anything about Canadian Impressionism?” Bill asked.

“Not really.”

“That’s what this is. It’s pretty pricey stuff. I’d say this room is worth at least three or four million.”

“I didn’t know there was anything other than Group of Seven.” Dan looked over the nameplates at the bottom of the frames — Mary Wrinch, Clarence Gagnon, and a few others. He’d never heard of any of them, apart from an A.Y. Jackson over the fireplace.

“Well, there is,” Bill declared. “This is it. Most people don’t know about this stuff. Thom collects it. Paintings and sports — that’s Thom.” A photograph frame sat on the mantle. “Here, just look at this.”

It was a triptych of Thom manning a sailboat on the left then in his scull on the right. In the middle, a much younger Thom sat on a black horse, an alert-looking hound by his side. The mantle thronged with trophies and awards.

Footsteps approached. Dan turned to see a slightly older version of the rower in the flesh. Keenly cut hair hugged the sides of his head, giving him a distinguished look, like an ad for business executives flying first class on British Airways. His deep tan and billowy shirt exuded a casual sportiness.

“Billy!”

Bill’s face lit up. “Thomas, old man! How are you?”

Dan listened with amusement to the good old boy affectations. He knew the private school system and its presumption that money and social worth went hand-in-hand. He’d have plenty to fill Donny in on later.

“Let me introduce you — Thom Killingworth, this is Dan Sharp.”

Thom turned to Dan with an appraising stare. “Wow. You’re pure sex,” he said as they shook.

“I don’t know about the ‘pure’ part, I’m afraid,” Dan said.

“Don’t believe him! He’s all that and more,” Bill said, in much the same way as he’d declared the value of the paintings.

Thom flashed his matinee idol smile. “I’m intrigued. Does Bill lend you out? Oops! Forget I said that — it’s my wedding day, after all!”

“I’ll forget it,” Dan said.

Thom shot Bill a look. “You didn’t mention he was cocky. I might just have to steal this one away from you, Billy.”

“Go ahead and try,” said Bill, glancing at Dan. “If you think you can. This one has staying power.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a young man with an impressive physique and a chiselled face that looked far more serious than might have been intended. He was twenty-one or twenty-two at most, dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt over a gym-sculpted body. Mother Nature at her most appealing. The shirt emphasized the boy’s chest and squared triceps. The jeans packaged bulging thighs and a spring-form butt. On a catwalk he would have been a one-name supermodel — Tyrone or Ché or Lars. In an escort service, he’d be top-dollar flesh rented by the minute. Here, in the living room of the Killingworth estate, he radiated a mercurial sexual appeal few could equal.

“My husband,” Thom said, with an ironic inflection.

“Isn’t that husband-to-be?” Bill said.

“We’ve had the pre-nups already,” Thom said. “The test drive was awesome!”

The boy stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. His permanent scowl wasn’t eased by a row of pearly whites bared into a grimace like a child’s approximation of happiness.

“Does he have a name?” Bill said.

“This is Sebastiano Ballancourt,” Thom replied.

Dan offered his hand. “Dan Sharp.”

“I am very pleased to meet you,” the boy said with an articulation straight from a translation phrasebook.

“Sebastiano’s from Brazil,” Thom said, as though anxious to explain away the single flaw in an otherwise priceless commodity.

“How did you meet?” Bill asked, savouring the boy like an after dinner mint.

“We meet … I mean, we met,” Sebastiano corrected himself, “on the site for gays on the computer.”

“We met on sex4men.com.” Thom looked at Dan. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“Actually, I’ve never been on a chat site,” Dan said, annoyed by Thom’s presumption yet feeling strangely prim, like somebody’s maiden aunt discovering a skin magazine stashed under a mattress.

“Really? How queer.” Thom’s tone was ironic again, though whether out of disbelief or disdain wasn’t clear. “Seb’s a mail-order husband. We had a brief chat the first night and I flew him up from Sao Paolo the next day.”

Sebastiano bared his crooked smile. “Thom likes everything so fast,” he said, as though recounting a particularly funny moment from his day.

“And it was lust at first sight!” Thom laid an arm over the boy’s shoulders, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Love came a bit later. I proposed the following month.” Sebastiano beamed. “Of course, I made sure we both got tested. So now we know.”

“Know what?” Dan said.

Thom looked surprised by the question. “That we’re both HIV-negative, of course.”

“Oh.” Dan looked at Sebastiano. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” the boy said solemnly, as though he’d just accomplished a particularly harrowing feat.

“Of course it was no surprise,” Thom said, grinning at Sebastiano. “No one’s ever tupped this Brazilian bull.”

Sebastiano laughed long and hard, shaking his head at the remark.

“And now we’re about to embark on a lifetime of commitment till death us do part.” Thom turned to Dan and winked. “Starting tomorrow. Tonight, anything goes.”

“Yes,” Sebastiano echoed happily. “It’s true.”

Bill leaned against the fireplace. “Now that Thom’s getting married, he’s going to inherit a fortune.”

“Oh, shut up, Billy,” Thom said irritably.

“Well, it’s true!” Bill turned to Dan. “Thom’s grandfather left an inheritance to whichever of his grandchildren married first. That was to make sure the queers got cut out of the will.”

“The silly old fuck,” Thom said, nibbling Sebastiano’s ear. “Fortunately, the laws have changed to help me accommodate grandfather’s wishes my way. And what’s more, I’ve found the love of my life. He’s beautiful, sexy, and disease-free. And best of all, he’s all mine!”

Sebastiano leaned his head on Thom’s shoulders with such an overt expression of affection, Dan knew immediately it was false. The boy was marrying for money, of course. And Thom was clearly marrying for sex.

Sebastiano smiled at Dan. “Tonight you will meet Daniella!” he said enthusiastically, like a child holding out hope for a long-promised event. For a moment, Dan thought he might even clap his hands in glee.

“Sebastiano’s sister,” Thom explained.

“I love her so much — more than anything on earth!” Sebastiano stopped and looked cautiously at Thom. “Except for Thom, of course. Because now I love him even more.” He gave Thom a hug. “My beautiful husband!” he exclaimed.

Thom looked out the picture window. “It’s clearing up,” he said. “We should go for a drive.” He turned to Dan. “Have you ever been to Lake on the Mountain?”

Dan shook his head. “Actually, no — though a friend of mine was telling me about it.”

Thom nodded. “We’ll go. You have to see it.”

They disembarked from the ferry, headed past the families waiting with faces expectant or bored, and veered left onto County Road 7. Lake on the Mountain was a minute’s climb up the hill. Near the top, they passed half a dozen weatherworn houses, an old church, and an inn set back from the road. Dan angled the car into a lot and sat facing a wooden rail overlooking the bay. Far below, the MV Quinte Loyalist and MV Glenora headed toward one another in the afternoon sun. The far hills were a blanket of colour. There was no trace of mist now. It had turned out to be a handsome day, unusually warm for September.

“Quite the view,” Dan said as they gathered at the rail. “And so peaceful up here.”

“That’s what the United Empire Loyalists thought when they fled the American Revolution,” Thom said. “They trekked through four hundred miles of wilderness to call this place home.” He looked over his shoulder where a small lake glittered in the distance. “But it’s the other side of this place that makes it famous — or infamous.”

Under a bank of trees, the shallow water rippled in the breeze. On the far side, a red canoe eased silently along, paddlers and canoe replicated perfectly on the lake’s placid surface. The wind gusted suddenly and the water danced a blue-grey jitterbug.

Dan looked back at the Bay of Quinte where miniaturized sailboats flashed like butterflies in the sun. Something tugged at him. He couldn’t name it at first. It was an unsettled feeling, the barest of hints at the back of his brain like a nagging intuition. In this place where breezes played on the water and wind stirred in the branches overhead, something was wrong. It was a sigh heard in an empty room or ghostly fingers straying across your cheek while you dreamed.

Thom was watching him. “Do you feel it?”

“Something’s odd here,” Dan said, almost apologetically. His brows knit. “I’m not given to ghosts and the like, but there’s something strange about this place.” He looked to Bill. “Do you know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean!” Bill exclaimed. “There’s no bar!”

Their laughter died over the surface of the lake. Dan tried to recall what Donny had said about the place. “It’s the water, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be this high.” His gaze returned to the bay. “It should level off with the water below.” He turned again and looked across the lake. “And behind those trees is Lake Ontario, also quite a bit farther below….”

“… and yet here we are, hundreds of metres above the bay and the lake, and the water level up here never drops,” Thom continued. “That’s it. That’s the mystery of this place.”

Dan drew a breath. “It’s freakish. It’s as if it’s breaking a law of nature.”

Bill shook his head. “I don’t feel anything. Besides, they say that about us.”

“They say that about doctors?” Thom joked.

Sebastiano, who had been quiet till then, spoke up. “What do they say about doctors? Are you a doctor?”

Bill turned. “So they tell me.”

“Never mind, Seb,” Thom said. “It was just a joke.”

Thom stepped onto a flat rock offshore and turned to them. “Forbidden love,” he declaimed. “Legend has it a Mohawk brave and his Ojibwa lover committed suicide here when their tribes tried to prevent them from running away together.” He pointed to the right of the parking lot. “There used to be a waterfall here that was once compared with Niagara. The settlers used it to power the gristmills.”

Thom looked over his shoulder. The canoe had reached the end of the lake and was headed back, sliding silently along like an image in a dream. “No motor boats. They don’t allow them.” He stepped nimbly back onto shore and took Dan’s arm, pulling him aside. “I just want to say how happy I am for you and Billy. He’s my closest friend and I love him to death. And anyone who loves Bill is a friend of mine.”

Dan nodded his thanks, but Thom had already moved ahead, as though uttering heartfelt sentiments was a casual thing for him. They caught up with Bill and Sebastiano on a walkway overshooting the water. A few yards out, a black stain spread under the water’s surface. Another mystery, Dan thought, until he realized it was where the lake plummeted.

“If you were in a canoe,” Thom said, “you’d see it’s a sheer drop. It just plunges and gives you a little chill. The early settlers claimed the lake was bottomless.”

“Any idea how deep it is?” Dan asked.

“Actually, I know exactly how deep it is,” Thom said. “Thirty-seven metres. As a comparison, the Bay of Quinte where we ferried across is only seventeen metres at its deepest point.”

“Where does the water come from?”

“It’s speculative,” Thom said, “but they think it might come from Lake Superior.”

“But that’s hundreds of kilometres away.”

Thom nodded. “Scientists did some experiments releasing radioactive isotopes in the water, and that’s what they’ve determined.”

“It really is a mystery then.”

Sebastiano was glancing around. A panicked look had taken hold of him. “I don’t like this place. Bad spirits live here.” He shivered. “I feel it is haunted.”

Thom placed an arm across his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Seb. I won’t let them get you.”

Bill eyed them. “I think it’s boring,” he said. “Let’s go to town and find a drink.”

Dan rested a bronzed arm on the windowsill, hair bristling in the breeze, as the car wound away from Glenora toward Picton. All four looked ahead expectantly, following the route the Loyalists once used. There would barely have been a track back then as they hacked their way through trees and dense growth, alert for Native attacks. Anticipating their new homeland, far from the tyranny of mob rule in the newly emancipated republic to the south, four hundred men and women loyal to King George III were setting the stage for the then-unnamed country’s own tenuous path to independence.

Bill and Thom carried on a desultory conversation in the back. Sebastiano sat silently up front with Dan. He’d been spooked by the lake. Thom was used to its mystery and Bill hadn’t felt a thing, but Dan thought it odd how strongly the boy had reacted.

Up ahead, a steeple beckoned. A mast-filled harbour flashed by with a collection of tilting crosses, and suddenly they were there. They roared over a bridge just as the town opened up. One block further along a pub hailed them from the first floor of a grand hotel that had survived the times. It stood there, a displaced duchess keeping up her artifices and routines in a world that no longer sustained a belief in royalty. The black and gold frame above the door dated the premises to 1881, a bit past John A.’s tenancy, but significant nonetheless in a land where anything old was seldom encouraged to hang around.

The Black Swan, known to regulars as the Murky Turkey, was an old-world fade-into-the-woodworks establishment replete with stained glass, stained menus, and a permanent ethos of beer and cigarettes that repulsed the lively but enticed the world-weary in for more.

Where the Scots pioneer went, drink was sure to follow. A mutinous-looking collection of malts and mashes lined the darkly mirrored bar, sixteen taps at hand for the discerning drinker. For better or worse, tradition demanded fish and chips on every menu, with a selection of fine eats. This one eschewed such old-world delicacies as haggis and blood pudding, but made up for it with offerings of fatty fried foods and dishes featuring animal entrails. Steak-and-kidney pie topped the list. For an added touch, sausages and mash were on offer, wisely located near the bottom of the menu owing to the fact that most Canadians would never have heard of it.

Heads notched toward them as they entered — a cast of regulars whose sluggish responses and leaden pallor suggested they hadn’t moved or seen daylight in recent memory. The newcomers slid into chairs, their youthful voices and quick movements at odds with the room, bending their elbows against a table scarred with cigarette burns and the sweat rings from countless rounds of cheer. The look said vintage, though the exact period would have proved hard to determine.

Sebastiano had cheered up considerably since leaving Lake on the Mountain. He barely stopped talking as they doffed coats and settled in. “This is a good place,” he said, looking around. “I like it here.”

“It almost looks as though it might date from Loyalist times,” Dan said.

“So does the waitress,” Bill said, as a stooped spectre approached wearing a hesitant smile. He looked at her nametag. “Hello, Erma,” he said.

Her smile blossomed into an unkempt garden of teeth. “Hear the specials, love?” she asked hopefully.

Thom shook his head. “Just drinks.”

Erma’s smile faded. She took their order and soon returned balancing a tray that threatened to topple her. “Just passing through?” she asked, marking them with their glasses.

“We’re here for a wedding,” Bill chimed in.

“Oh? That’s nice. Whose?”

“His,” Bill said, pointing at Thom. “And his.” The finger went round to Sebastiano.

Erma nodded solemnly, as though unsure whether to take this news in jest. “That’s nice,” she said again. “Are youse from around here?”

“He’s a Killingworth,” Bill said, nodding at Thom before taking a slug of his drink.

Erma fixed her stare on Thom, as if imagining him in another setting. “From the other side of the harbour then.” She nodded to the far wall, as though looking directly through the brick and wooden beams.

“Yes,” Thom said quietly.

“I know the family,” Erma said, voice cautious. “Which one are you, love?” More than a tad interested now.

“Thom.”

“Thom. Thomas.” She mulled this over. “And was it your father who disappeared?”

Thom’s eyes betrayed annoyance. “Yes,” he said curtly.

“That was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Did he ever turn up?”

“No. No, he didn’t.”

Dan tried to recall if Bill had mentioned Thom’s missing father. It seemed odd given Dan’s occupation, though maybe people with bad hearts sat through entire meals with Bill without broaching the subject. It wasn’t the strange things that necessarily got talked about in people’s pasts. In fact, they were usually spoken of only on long nights over tall glasses of whiskey, with cigarette ash burning down to the knuckles, before anyone thought to mention them.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Erma said, as though he’d been recently bereaved. She picked up the tray and shifted her weight. Her eyes grew shrewd again. “You had a brother too, I think.”

“Still have,” Thom said, not looking at her. “He’s around.”

“Oh?” She looked vaguely disappointed, as though a missing father required a missing son as a complement. “Well, have a lovely wedding,” she said. “It’s supposed to be a nice weekend.”

“Thank you,” Thom said, still not smiling.

Erma left, tray at her side.

Bill held up his lager and looked across at Thom and Sebastiano. “Here’s to a lovely wedding,” he said, tipping his glass.

For a moment, Dan thought Bill’s smile betrayed some sort of amusement at Thom’s discomfiture.

The young woman in the drawing room looked up from her book as they entered. She reminded Dan of Sebastiano, only a feminized version of the ardent Brazilian. They had the same strong features. Her hair was cut short, like his. Her face centred on a sleek nose and pouting rosebud mouth. Her eyes, however, were black where Sebastiano’s were blue. With a bit of work and the right clothes, she might be truly beautiful.

Sebastiano called out in Portuguese and she responded with a laugh. She put the book down and stood, her graceful hands smoothing out a black knit dress. She was tall and willowy, with a gymnast’s breasts. She came toward them and offered her hand. “Hello,” she said. “I am Daniella — Sebastiano’s sister.”

Dan took the hand and held it. “I’m Dan. It’s very nice to meet you, Daniella. Your brother’s a charming fellow.”

She smiled graciously, shook hands with Bill in turn, and then threw her arms around Sebastiano, pulling him close and breathing in his scent.

“My baby sister, you come back to me!” Sebastiano exclaimed over her shoulder to the others.

“I always come back to you.” Daniella released him and opened her arms to Thom. “And beautiful, sexy Thomas,” she said with a giggle.

“What were you reading just now, Daniella?” Thom said.

She shrugged. “It’s nothing — just a Brazilian novel. A stupid thing.” Her boyish, animated features reminded Dan of Kendra.

“Who’s for a drink?” Thom exclaimed, despite the fact they’d just returned from the Black Swan. Bill and Sebastiano accepted. Dan and Daniella declined. “Not a drinker, Danny?” Thom’s eyebrows rose mockingly. “Bill said you could knock back your share of rye with no problem.”

Bill smirked. “He’s a drinker, all right. He just prefers it after dark. Along with other things.”

Dan ignored him. “I try not to drink during the day — even on vacation.”

“Sensible,” Thom said. “Pop? Juice? Anything?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Daniella?”

Her hair bobbed a response. “No, Thomas. Obrigado.”

Thom went to a sideboard and splashed drinks into glasses. He handed them around then sat with a satisfied sigh, arms raised on the back of the sofa. “So-o-o,” he said, smiling. “Here we are.” He looked over at Sebastiano. “My darling husband-to-be.” He turned to Bill and Daniella. “And our two lovely best men!”

Daniella smiled and curled into the chair like a cat. “I am your ‘best man,’ Sebastiano,” she cooed at her brother.

“You are my best everything,” he replied and then shot a look at Thom. “And you too, my beautiful Thomas.”

Thom turned to Dan. “Did Bill tell you we’ve got two best men?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Well, we do — Bill and Daniella. I figured there was no need for a bridesmaid, since neither of us is a blushing bride.” He nodded at Sebastiano. “Him least of all, but I don’t think I’d feel right wearing a dress.” He turned to Daniella. “And Daniella’s offered to dress up in a tuxedo for us, haven’t you, sweetie?”

“Of course,” she said. “For my beautiful best men!”

Dan stood and went to the window, pushing aside his irritation at how everything seemed to be a great joke. The day was still bright, but the shadows had crept over the hills on the far shore. He turned to the room. “I think I’ll take a walk,” he said.

No one spoke. The others were so absorbed in their little charades, they seemed to have forgotten about him.