Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 4

I returned to the planting, determined to finish what Marie and I had started, but I couldn’t. My heart was no longer in it.

Annoyed with my cowardice, I stomped up the stairs to my cottage, which stared back at me with unblinking opacity from its perch on top of the Point. One of the turrets seemed to cast judgment when the windows suddenly flared with reflected sun and as suddenly returned to the shadows. I stopped and stared back at this brazen hussy that dared to call itself a cottage.

It was a folly that more properly belonged in one of those turn-of-the-century summer playgrounds like the Charlevois or Bar Harbor. Instead, Great-grandpa Joe had it built in the middle of nowhere with the only neighbour being the reserve of the Fishhook Algonquin or Migiskan Anishinabeg as they preferred to call themselves. A hundred years later, it was still a folly, and while the reserve now boasted a general store and hockey rink, it was still a hundred miles from nowhere.

I loved this cottage, always had from the first moment I began spending summers with Aunt Aggie. There was something about its rambling Victorian quirkiness, the turrets and arches and wrap-around verandah, all fashioned out of squared timbers, cedar shake and stone, that seemed to shout “I don’t give a damn”.

I sure wished some of that thick-skinned nonchalance could rub off on me. Instead, I was feeling depressed and mad at myself for letting Louis just take Marie away without making so much as a whimper. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what was probably happening right now. I’d seen that look Louis had worn enough times myself to know the kind of mood he was in.

Gareth.

Gareth used to wear that look. And, like today, whenever I’d seen that look, I’d done nothing. As if in punishment, my arm started throbbing. I rubbed it, as I always did, and headed into the kitchen for the only thing that could wipe out Gareth—vodka, lemon vodka to be exact.

Fortified with a three-finger-full tumbler, I retreated to the deep recess of the verandah, away from the reach of the late afternoon sun. It was the kind of sprawling verandah, complete with fretwork and a whimsical roofline, that modern architects decreed superfluous. It was the place where I spent much of my time, when the weather wasn’t brutally cold.

I sat, where I normally sat, in Aunt Aggie’s old rocker, and took a searing swig of vodka. My fingers, toes tingled.

With a groan, Sergei eased his large curly-haired body onto the wooden floor by my feet. He placed his long, black, pointed snout on his neatly trimmed paws, paws which made him look more like a citified dandy than the dirt-grovelling country dog he had become. I supposed it was unrealistic of me to think I could keep him in the same elegant clip he’d worn in Toronto. But, if he didn’t mind the tugging, I didn’t mind the daily brushings to remove burrs, twigs and whatever else was entangled in his thick coat.

I rocked back and forth, back and forth. Took another swig of vodka. Gradually, the pace slowed as the tonic coursed through my veins. It was a good tonic. It worked every time, a blend of numbing vodka, unrelenting wilderness and syncopated rocking. My arm stopped throbbing.

When I’d first moved in, I’d tried placing the rocker in several different locations, but for one reason or another I was never satisfied, until finally I’d placed it under one of the turreted roofs where a bulge in the verandah extended over the cliff wall. It wasn’t until several months later that I remembered this was the spot where Aunt Aggie used to sit hour by hour. It had a clear view of Whispers Island.

Right now, that clear view of the beached boats showed that the men were still on the island. Who were these guys? Certainly didn’t fit the profile of fishermen. For one, there were too many. Must be at least fifteen or twenty.

Maybe there were plenty of prime fishing spots on Echo Lake, but even Eric Odjik, Band Chief of the Migiskan and operator of the Forgotten Bay Fishing Camp, never had more than four or five boats on the lake at the same time. “Spoils the image,” he’d say in that soft, measured drawl of his. “Our customers want to feel they’ve got this wilderness all to themselves, they don’t want to be staring eyeball to eyeball.” So Eric trucks the overflow fishermen to other lakes scattered throughout the thirty-five square miles of the Migiskan Reserve.

And fishermen didn’t tramp over land looking for fish. In fact, nobody tramped over Whispers Island.

A year ago, shortly after I’d moved in, I’d watched Eric’s silver boat skim across the water to kick out some campers who’d pitched their tent on the same spit of land where the Fishing Camp boats were now laid out in military precision. It had been a warm Indian Summer day, like today. The small sandy beach, with its silver birches and overarching pine, was a perfect spot for camping. Eric hadn’t cared. He soon had the couple back in their canoe searching for another location. A difficult task, since the entire northern shore of Echo Lake belonged to the Migiskan Reserve.

I’d watched through my binoculars to see what this forlorn looking couple would do. When it looked as if they were paddling my way, to one of the few beaches on the Three Deer Point shoreline, I’d decided I would play Bob Cratchit to Eric’s Scrooge and let them camp. They’d veered left instead and had landed on the only land where they wouldn’t need to ask permission, the uninhabited crown-owned shore to the south of the island.

Now these men, who looked considerably more threatening than a couple of campers, were wandering all over the rocks of Whispers Island, obviously with Eric’s full permission. I sure hoped he wasn’t planning on expanding his Fishing Camp operation. He often said the island would be a perfect spot for a resort, like one of those condo/resort combinations which were consuming the Laurentians to the south. But he always said it with a glint in his eye which made me think he only wanted to pull my chain, which he invariably did.

I didn’t mind his Fishing Camp, out-of-sight at the far end of neighbouring Forgotten Bay. In fact, I often dropped by when seeking more voluble company than my own. With its limited number of rooms, there were never enough people to erode the stillness I’d come to treasure. However, a full-blown lodge with hundreds of rooms within full view and hearing of my cottage would be a disaster. As far as I was concerned, I’d left the teeming masses behind when I fled Toronto. I didn’t want them back.

Deciding now was the time to start voicing my opposition before plans moved too far along, I phoned him. However, he wasn’t at the Fishing Camp nor at the band council hall. I left a voice message.

I’d no sooner hung up when the phone rang. Convinced it was Eric, who’d listened in while I was leaving my message, I answered, “Eric Odjik, you’d better keep your grubby paws off Whispers Island.”

“Eric? Eric who?”

“Hey, wait a minute. Who’s this?” I was confused. This wasn’t Eric, but the voice was familiar, too familiar.

“You mean you’ve forgotten me already? Who’s this Eric guy?”

And then, with slow creeping dread, I realized who it was. How could I fail to recognize the deep timbre of a voice which once had the power to send a tingle of pleasure up my spine and now brought only dread?

Gareth.

“Ah . . . hi,” I said. The first words I’d spoken to him since we’d sat with our lawyers more than a lifetime ago.

“I hope you don’t mind my calling out of the blue like this?”

I mumbled something, as I desperately tried to control my spiking nerves.

“I see it didn’t take you long to replace me,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“Can’t a man call up his former wife and say hello?”

“Look Gareth, you never did anything without wanting something in return. Now tell me what you want.”

“To say how much I’ve missed you.”

“Those words don’t work on me any more. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

I slammed the phone down so hard that it almost collapsed the fragile antique table. My hand shook.

The phone began ringing before I’d reached Aunt Aggie’s rocker. I sat down, drained the remains of the vodka and rocked back and forth.

Damn Gareth, why did he have to re-enter my life just when I finally had him out of it?

After four rings, the phone stopped when the message system swung into action. Five minutes later, the phone rang again. I ignored it. It stopped after four rings. I rocked back and forth and tried to focus my thoughts on the men on the island.

Why now, after three years of silence?

The phone rang again. Gareth was never one to admit defeat. One of the reasons why I invariably gave in. That and other reasons. The ringing stopped. I rocked and waited for it to resume. It didn’t. The tension eased from my grip on the arms of the rocker.

Maybe one of these calls was from Eric? I returned to the living room to check the messages.

“Megs, I’d like to talk to you.”

Megs. It had been a long time since Gareth had called me that.

“I’ll call one more time. If you don’t answer, I won’t bother you again. Megs, I’ve missed you.”

It was the “Megs”. It used to make me feel sort of squishy inside.

The phone rang again. I hesitated. It rang twice. I wasn’t sure. A third time. Gathering up my courage, I grabbed it before the end of the fourth ring.

“You’ve got to the count of ten to tell me why you’re calling, otherwise I hang up,” I said, with more bravado than I felt.

“Christ, give a man a chance.”

“Two.”

“Okay. I want to see you.”

“Four.”

“My life’s empty without you.”

“What about Janice?”

“You know you’re the only woman who’s ever meant anything to me.”

“Still counting,” I replied. “Seven.”

“Christ, what do you want me to say?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Megs. Is that what you want to hear? I was never sorrier than the day the divorce went through.”

“You haven’t told me what happened to Janice?”

“I got rid of her.”

“Fine.” I walked back to the verandah, the portable phone clamped to my ear. “But what’s it got to do with me?”

“I want you back in my life.”

“Oh.” I sat down on the rocker and began rocking. I strained to hear his voice above my thumping heart.

“Is that all you have to say, ‘Oh’? I’m serious. I want to come see you. I know we can’t go back to where we were, but surely we can be friends again.”

Why had I let myself get into this impossible position?

I watched the island. The black dots were converging on the beach. One after another, the boats slid into the water. Soon the whine of their motors drifted over the flat water.

“Megs? You still there? Say something.”

“I don’t know, Gareth. I think I’ve said all I have to say. Besides, I’m busy.”

“Busy? In the fucking wilds!” he shot back. Then, as if suddenly remembering the reason for the call, he changed his tack and continued. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. I guess I’m nervous.”

“That’s a first.”

“I mean it. My life hasn’t been the same since we separated.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You have every right to be angry. Just give me a chance. You did once before. Remember?”

How could I forget? That was the first time he left me for someone else. But he did come back. And stayed until Janice turned up.

“Besides, I’ve decided it’s only fair you have the Chaki,” he added.

“Pardon?” I must’ve misunderstood.

“I said, I’ll give you the damn painting.”

That magnificent landscape. I’d coaxed him into helping me purchase it for our tenth wedding anniversary. In a fit of spite during our battle over marriage assets, he’d argued the oil painting was his because he’d paid the greater portion. The judge had agreed.

“So what’s your answer?”

I hesitated. I really wanted the picture. Besides, it had been three years since I’d seen Gareth. It’d be kind of nice to look once more on the man who’d held me enthralled for more years than I cared to count. But how close did I want to be? Perhaps if I could get him to hand over the painting without getting out of the car, he’d just drive away.

“All right,” I finally answered.

Gareth said he could bring it next Saturday. I agreed. The sooner the painting was in my hands, the better. I didn’t trust him.

I loosened my grip on the phone and placed it back on the cradle. My fingers were still tense, so was every other muscle in my body. The throbbing in my arm seemed to take on a life of its own. Hell, what had I done?

A sudden roar of engines exploded from behind the distant point. One after another, the three planes skimmed across the water and lifted into the air. They narrowly missed the tops of my trees as they veered up and over Three Deer Point. The droning continued until it was smothered by the silence of the forest. But the silence was short-lived.

The boats revved their engines and, like mosquitoes honing in on the scent of blood, sped towards Three Deer Point. With an ear-piercing buzz, they swerved past my shoreline and headed back to the Fishing Camp. They left a reminder of their passing, an oscillating hum on the wind.

The phone started ringing again.